Season of Healing
by Dien Alcyone
Summary: This fic has been discontinued. The author offers her sincere apologies and thanks to all the fans who continue to express interest.
1. Prologue: Meet the Parents

A Season for Healing

By Dien

Summary: Circumstances lead Harry Potter to stay with Severus Snape for the summer before his seventh year-- a development neither of them expect to be happy with. But they both have a lot to learn about each other... and a lot to unlearn. And perhaps, in the process, they can each find some healing.

(Yes, I *know* it's been done, by many many people. I have no control over other fics, only my own.)

This will _eventually _be a romance piece. You have been warned. Don't read if the thought of Harry and Severus bothers you.

Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is G.

Prologue. _In which Harry finds himself rescued from an unpleasant situation by an unlikely ally._

Severus Snape irritably adjusted the collar of the Muggle shirt, though his annoyance stemmed not so much as for the clothing itself, which he hardly minded-- indeed, he sometimes found Muggle clothing to be more comfortable than robes-- but from the reason he was wearing it at all. The reason he was standing, in Muggle clothes, on a Muggle street, in a Muggle town, at the foot of a Muggle sidewalk that led up to a very, very Muggle house.

He remembered the argument with Dumbledore vividly; he had more than made his displeasure at being the one to run this little 'errand' known, but the headmaster was ruthless, truly and utterly ruthless, and had been so nonchalant and blasé about the whole thing that it really had made Severus feel ridiculous over raising such a fuss in the first place.

But _damn_ it. It was _summer holiday_; if he didn't want to have to see any of the little twits during these precious months away from them, wasn't that his affair? And if he didn't want to see _that_ one particular student, surely, oh surely, Albus could have sent someone else.

But no. And here he stood. He snarled briefly, shook his hair out of his eyes, and began to walk determinedly up the pavement towards the door of Number Four Privet Drive.

He knew the bloody Boy-Who-Lived was supposed to live here, with relatives called the Dursleys. The displeasure on his face grew. Muggle relatives-- probably fawned over a _wizard_ in the family, gave Potter even more attention than he already got from every single bloody person at Hogwarts but the Slytherin Head of House.

Severus paused at the door, spared a glare for the rest of the darkened street, quiet at this time of night, then turned back to the door and knocked.

Sounds could be heard from the other side of the door... probably the contraption the Muggles called a 'telly.' And from the sound of it, going at full volume. Snape rolled his eyes and knocked again, louder.

"Someone at the door, Petunia?" a gruff, loud voice hollered inside.

"What, dear?" a shrill feminine voice answered, and Snape winced. He hadn't even met the people, and they were already irritating the hell out of him. But of course, they _were_ Potter's relations...

"I said, sounds like someone's at the door," the loud voice barked, then muttered something Severus didn't quite catch, but sounded like, "Damn salesmen, never an evening's peace..."

"Have Harry go see," muttered a new voice, lazy and indolent.

"Right. _Boy!_" the loud voice shouted.

A moment's pause, and then from a different part of the house, sounding muffled, came a voice familiar to Snape... though he didn't think he'd ever heard it sound quite so... weary. Flat. Dead. "Yes, Uncle Vernon?"

"Make yourself useful, you waste of space-- go see who's at the door."

"I thought I wasn't supposed to leave my cupboard," the voice sighed, not particularly surly, just resigned and making an observation.

_"Don't you give me any lip, you worthless little freak!"_ roared the angry voice, and Severus blinked. "Or you know what you'll get, that's for certain!"

A sigh. "Yes sir."

Snape heard footsteps, then the porch light flickered on and the door opened to reveal one of his least favorite people. But all the Potions Master could do was stare.

Potter looked... bad. The ridiculous clothes he wore were ill-fitting, loose around his tall but bony frame-- and surely the boy hadn't been _that_ skinny at end of term?-- but their baggy folds didn't conceal the slump of his shoulders, the way he shuffled his feet. There was a certain depressed dejection in the way he hung his head, looking at the ground as he opened the door, before bringing up his face to look at the new arrival.

Severus's lips compressed into a thin line and he inhaled sharply. Potter's eyes behind those ridiculous thick glasses were shadowed and tired, but that wasn't what made him catch his breath so much as the bruise on the right side of the boy's face. A nice shade of purplish-green, very attractive... it went _so_ well with his split lower lip.

Potter, for his part, was doing a double-take at the sight of his Potions professor standing on the door-step. The green eyes widened with something unidentifiable, then Potter... cringed? Yes, the boy bloody well cringed, very slightly, looking away, and something in Severus's gut clenched.

"P-professor Snape," murmured Harry, looking at the ground. Severus said nothing.

"Tell them we don't want any, whatever they're selling," snapped the loud male voice from the room with the telly.

"It's, ah, not a salesman, Uncle Vernon," Potter said quietly, uncomfortably.

"Well then, who the bloody hell--"

Snape decided it was time to say something. "My name is Severus Snape. I'm one of Harry's teachers at school," he said, letting the chill he used on some of his more recalcitrant students seep into his voice, which he made loud enough to be heard over the sounds of their programme.

Though he was looking into the room with the unpleasant voices, he saw Potter flinch again, out of the corner of his eye.

There was an unpleasant silence from the other room, except for the sounds of the TV. Then a sort of indignant gasping wheezing noise, which was followed immediately by the emergence into the hallway of a large and fairly disagreeable man.

Severus was well aware of how cold he make his gaze appear, and allowed the full force of that gaze to rest on the Muggle... for all the good it did. The man was not aware of it, or indeed even looking at him. His small, piggy eyes were set, quite furiously, on the young man standing hesitantly in the hallway.

"What's this then, Potter? Eh? Somehow sneak some little note to that freak show school of yours with some blather about how you're being 'abused'? Is that it? Well? _Answer_ me when I speak to you, boy!" growled Vernon Dursley nastily, towering over the figure of the young man. Potter was no longer exactly short-- during his fifth year, he'd had a bit of a growth spurt and shot up several inches, making his slenderness even more noticeable-- but his uncle was a large man, and still had several inches and a good two hundred pounds on him.

Potter had his eyes fixed on the floor, but he muttered, "How could I have sent a note? I don't have Hedwig here, there'd be no way for me to send any message. I didn't--"

"Don't you lie to me, you scrawny punk," the Muggle said, his bulldog face getting red, as he took a threatening step closer to Potter. "You think being grounded in the closet all summer's bad? You haven't seen anything yet, you little filth..."

Severus registered, almost subconsciously, the arrival in the hallway of a woman, drying her hands on a dishtowel, and a boy that looked to be about seventeen or so-- Potter's age. But there any resemblance between them ended, as the boy was a large, stocky thing more-than-tending to pudginess. Beady eyes glinted with delight from a porcine face as he watched the verbal tongue-lashing his father-- for such it had to be, with such a resemblance-- was dishing out to Potter.

The woman, on the other hand, was regarding Snape nervously, seemingly the only one aware he was there. Unlike her portly family, she was a bony thing, with a distinct pinched look around the face and mouth. If her husband and son had a piggish look to them, then she was a rat-- her slightly long and very pointed nose twitching forward, her hard little eyes glittering with a mixture of greed and fear. Severus was reminded, distinctly, of Peter Pettigrew.

But this was not the time for such ruminations. Snape brought his attention back to the scene in front of him, and then effectively brought _their_ attention back to him by stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

Vernon Dursley turned and looked at him with faint surprise and anger. "Here now, you think you can just waltz in here like--"

"I think," said Snape quietly, his voice cutting easily across the other man's blustery tones, "that we didn't get this started off properly. Let's try again, shall we.

"I am Professor Severus Snape. I am one of Harry's instructors at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And you?" he asked in a professionally cool tone.

The beefy man, reddening even further, stared at him and blinked for a few seconds before muttering, "Vernon Dursley. I'm his-- uncle."

Snape pressed his lips together. Obviously not a relationship the man _liked_ to think about.

The Muggle had his composure back again, and said in a nasty tone of voice, "What do you want, then?" His swine eyes fixed on Severus's own, and the Slytherin felt the slightest of smiles twitch the corner of his lips.

The Muggle wanted to have a _staredown_, did he? Arching one brow, he let the full impact of his black, black eyes drill into the other man, holding the gaze with his own cold, ruthless stare until the other man began to twitch uncomfortably. The Dursley looked away first.

Severus spoke, purposely keeping his voice quiet and precise, unlike the raw angry tones of the man he was dealing with. "I am here at request of Harry's headmaster, to check up on him. Potter hadn't answered some letters regarding next term, and we faculty like to make sure our students are... all right." Careful insinuation into the last phrase, watch the pig-man redden some more...

Again, out of the corner of his eyes he saw Potter twitch. 

But the Human Swine (Severus mentally named him with delight) was flushing guiltily now. When he spoke, his voice was louder and kept getting more so. "If you're talking about those damned birds that kept fluttering around and trying to get into the windows, being a bloody health hazard and what not-- had to use my rifle just to get the blasted things to leave--"

Like a bartender making a drink, Severus made a calculated addition to his tone: more ice and vinegar. "Am I to understand," he said softly, viciously, "that you have been keeping a Hogwarts student from receiving important correspondence?"

The shade of red on the big man's face darkened; the small eyes flashed. "We don't hold with any of _that nonsense_ here! We won't have it. I won't _stand for it_," he snarled, taking a step closer to Snape.

A mistake. They were practically of a height; the Human Swine couldn't use altitude as an advantage here. As for the admitted advantage in bulk... well, if Severus Snape could stand in front of Lord Voldemort himself and not cringe... this man had no chance in hell.

He simply _looked_ at the man, cold scathing menace in his eyes, until Vernon Dursley took an unconscious step back, then another, beads of sweat appearing on his brow. Snape spared him one last withering look before turning to Harry.

"Potter," he said crisply, "I take it you never received your letter from the Headmaster? Or the one from McGonagall, informing you of your summer assignments to make up for your failed Transfiguration test?"

Harry shook his head, the faintest of smiles playing around his mouth as he looked at his quailing uncle. "No, sir," he said quietly. "But I wouldn't have been able to do my work anyway-- they won't let-- I mean-- I haven't had access to my books."

"Lies! All lies!" snapped the elder Dursley. "You rotten little ingrate, we feed you, we take you in, we--"

Severus decided he had really had had quite enough of this man. From the pocket of the long black wool coat he was wearing, he drew his wand and leveled it at the Human Swine. _"Petrificus Totalus,"_ he said quietly, and had the immense satisfaction of seeing the pig shut up, immediately and without fuss.

He turned to the lady of the house, who had backed up against the wall with a little scream, clinging to her son's arm (although he didn't look too sure of himself, either). "Mrs. Dursley, I presume?"

She gave a frightened, rat-like little nod. He continued. "May I take it that you and your husband are not exactly transported with euphoria by having Potter stay with you during the summers?"

The woman found her voice. "Of course not! _We_ don't want the little freak-- but what are we supposed to do with him? The ungrateful snot! After all we've _done_ for him--"

"Yes, I'm sure your contributions to Potter's welfare have been absolutely underwhelming," Snape drawled casually, crossing his arms and leaning back against the door. "In light of the... _extreme_ avuncular concern you both bear the boy, you will no doubt be devastated to hear he is no longer any of Your Problem.

"Potter. Get anything you may wish to take with you. You're leaving. I am not about to allow you to remain _here_, among these... these... _Muggles_... until September."

The young man appraised the frozen form of his uncle, then looked at his aunt, then finally back at Snape, and gave a little shrug. An unreadable expression on his face, he turned and opened up a door to a sort of closet/cupboard thing under the stairs and disappeared within.

Potter's cousin and aunt were still hunched together, as far as they could get from Snape in the hallway, and alternating fearful glances between him and the still-petrified Vernon Dursley. _Frozen meat,_ Severus thought with amusement, closing his eyes and quite effectively ignoring the Muggles.

"Er." That would be the younger Swine. Snape didn't open his eyes or move from his position leaned against the door. Swine, Junior, cleared his throat nervously, obviously feeling like he should be standing up to this dark stranger in their house, and equally obviously not wanting to.

"Ah. Um. You," said the boy. Severus exhaled slowly and reminded himself that there _were_ punishments for casting irreversible curses on Muggles. However...

"Silence," he said icily. His wand was still in his hand; he'd been tapping it irritably on his arm but now held it very still, veiled threat. The teenager _silenced_, and Severus returned to waiting.

In less time than he'd thought, he heard the scrape of Potter's feet on the floor and opened his dark eyes to regard the boy.

Potter was carrying pitifully little with him-- a small duffle bag filled with clothes, presumably-- and looked about to speak, but Snape beat him to it.

"Is that all you've got, boy?" he said flatly, keeping the usual reserved-for-Potter-sarcasm from his voice. _Not_ tonight.

"Um... no, but... well, they have some of my stuff locked up... sir," the boy muttered, ducking his head.

Snape gave an impatient sigh and fixed his gaze on the Muggles once more. "Mrs. Dursley. Kindly instruct your otherwise useless offspring to retrieve Potter's things from wherever you have them stashed."

The skinny woman twitched, grew a bit paler. In a voice that somehow managed to screech and whisper at the same time, she said, "You freak-- your sort can't order us around like this-- I'll call the police--"

Severus rolled his eyes and abruptly straightened from his slouch against the door, then _stalked_-- there really was no other word for it-- over to the woman, who 'eeped' and tried to hide behind her bulky offspring, but as _he_ was trying to do the same thing to _her_, neither of them had especial success.

He stopped in front of her and glared down at her with the full impact of his cold dark eyes. His voice was deceptively soft when he spoke. "Mrs. Dursley. I am approximately three breaths away from turning you into something highly edible-- probably chocolate-- and then transforming your swine of a son into something... perhaps a small rodent... with a ravenous appetite for junk food-- though from the look of his waistline, he hardly _needs _transfiguration for _that_ to occur-- and letting him _eat _you.

"Those dinner plans taken into account, I'd advise you to do everything in your power to see us gone _before_ those three breaths run out-- and that means getting Potter's property. _If_ you would be so kind...?"

Petunia Dursley had grown paler and paler during the recitation, and now gave a frightened little squeak which served to reinforce the impression of a rat. "Dudley-- do as he says--" she gasped, and Swine Junior needed no further encouragement, taking off up the stairs.

Snape shook his head minutely and muttered obscenities under his breath.

Harry watched in an odd state of surreal pleasure as Dudley scampered to do as he was told, a first in all the years Harry had known him. He had never before imagined what would happen if his two least favorite sets of people got together-- the Dursleys and Professor Snape-- but now that it was happening, he couldn't help but be pleased at the way it was turning out. Amazing-- who would have thought _Snape_ would be the one to flatten the Dursleys?

But he was-- and how. Harry had listened with bewildered delight as Snape had, with his customary biting sarcasm and cold glares (much easier to watch when _you_ weren't the target) left every one of the three Muggles petrified-- literally, in Uncle Vernon's case. This was turning out to be a very odd evening.

It had been a little over two weeks since term let out and he had, returned, reluctantly, to his Muggle relatives for the summer. He'd always thought that as he grew older, they'd somehow become easier to deal with, but that was emphatically not the case.

Despite the fact that he had six years of training as a wizard under his belt, despite the fact that he'd fought terrible and horrible menaces during every single one of those years, despite the fact that most people he knew respected him and held him in high esteem, despite the fact that he was, in a little over a year, going to be a legal adult... he had somehow never escaped the hold that his unpleasant relatives held over him.

The summer before this had warned him what things were probably going to be like, and he had therefore left Hedwig, his pet owl, with his good friend Ron Weasley over the summer term, since there was no reason both he _and_ his familiar should have to deal with the casual cruelty of the Dursleys. Besides which, he didn't think he'd ever have forgiven himself if something had happened to Hedwig, and it was better to know she was safe.

But the loss of his little pet had left him feeling very isolated. Then there was the matter of the letters from his friends and teachers. He had seen Ron's owl Hermes as well as several other owls he didn't know flying around the house, letters for him on their legs, (he didn't know if that had made him feel worse or better... at least he knew his friends cared about him, but being unable to actually read their letters was torment) but nothing he had done or said had convinced Uncle Vernon to let them in-- indeed, his efforts had only earned him being returned to the miserable little cupboard under the stairs and having all his schoolbooks confiscated. And his broomstick. And his wand. 

Things had only gotten worse from there.

And then, tonight.

He had been very surprised-- no, shocked-- to open the door and find... Snape? standing there-- then instantly wanted to duck his head. The _last_ thing he needed was for his most hated teacher to see him like _this_. He didn't want to see the gloating glint in Snape's eyes as the man realized that Harry was treated, here, exactly as he obviously thought Harry should be treated, all the time.

He had thought bitterly, _Well, here you are, Snape. Is this good enough for you? You've always wanted to see me ordered about, put down, treated like dirt, beaten... here you go. Enjoy it, you bastard._

He'd expected some cutting comment, laced with the usual venom-- but Snape had said... nothing. Just stood there.

And then Uncle Vernon had come in, the scene had progressed out of Harry's hands, and he had stood there in a kind of shock as he listened and realized that... 

...Snape was on his side. Well, that might be going a touch far... but he was most definitely _not_ pleased with the Dursleys.

It was so much fun watching his uncle bluster and storm and be met with Snape's calculated ice in return that Harry had almost begun to smile. And, oddly, when Snape had spoke to him, it had been... well, again, too much to say _kind_, exactly, but... but there had been none of his usual malice and cruel disdain. His voice had been business-like, efficient, nothing more... and that was by far and away the nicest Harry had ever heard Snape speak to him.

Then Vernon Dursley became the victim of a Petrificus curse. Harry had been torn-- oh, what a delight it was to see _that_-- but he just knew that when Snape left, when Uncle Vernon was returned to normal, that he, Harry, was going to Get It.

And then Snape had rounded on Aunt Petunia, and to a lesser degree on Dudley, and Harry had listened, and oh boy. Oh boy.

Snape was telling him to grab his stuff. He was not going to be here the rest of the summer.

Time to do a double or triple or quadruple take. _This_ was not expected. But then, none of the evening had been, and after one quick glance at his relations, Harry had complied without argument.

Who _cared_ where Snape was going to take him-- just about anywhere had to be better than this. Maybe he'd be staying at Hogwarts for the summer, and the thought of that was enough to send a delicious tingle of anticipation running through him. Oh boy, oh boy.

He'd entered the cupboard, shoved his ill-fitting clothes (inherited from Dudley) into a worn duffel bag, along with the few of his things he'd actually been allowed to keep with him, and come back out. Before he could explain that the Dursleys had his remaining things impounded, Snape was already asking him, then sending Dudley-- _sending Dudley!_-- to go and get his stuff for him.

Harry watched the resulting confrontation-- if such it could be called-- with extreme interest, almost flinching a bit on Aunt Petunia's behalf during Snape's threat. _He'd_ been the object of Snape's displeasure enough times to know that it was hardly a fun experience, but... well, it couldn't have happened to a nicer person, he thought gleefully. 

And it wasn't as if Snape actually _would_ turn either of them into anything. That was just an intimidation tactic.

...Wasn't it?

In any case, it was very effective, and now Dudley had disappeared up the stairs and they were all standing around waiting for him to return. Harry took the opportunity to stare at Snape.

His Potions instructor was standing impatiently, arms crossed again, the wand twitching in one of his long hands. It was very different to see him in Muggle clothing, and with a start, Harry realized that the dreaded and disliked Professor Snape, Head of Slytherin House... had Fashion Sense.

He was wearing a black wool coat that looked very classy (not to mention warm and comfortable), long enough that it was almost like a cloak, and currently unbuttoned, revealing the shirts beneath: a charcoal gray turtleneck with a button-up, dark green collared shirt over it, though it wasn't done up all the way either. Both shirts were tucked into the waistline of his stylish black trousers, neatly belted, and the foot that was currently tapping on the floor was clad in an ankle boot of black leather, just like its companion. 

The Wizardly Ignorance of Muggle Fashion Problem, it seemed, did _not_ live in Severus Snape... unlike at the Quidditch World Cup, during which Harry had seen more abuse of taste and style than he had ever believed possible.

Snape's black eyes were fixed on the stairwell Dudley had disappeared up, his thin lips pursed in impatience, and Harry forgot his idle ruminations on the Potions Master's clothing as he remembered the reasons for the man's impatience. Waiting for Dudley, who was bringing Harry's stuff down... because Snape did not want Harry to spend the rest of holiday here.

Because Snape, bizarrely, seemed _concerned_ about him.

Harry wondered when, exactly, he was going to wake up, and decided he'd just enjoy things until it happened.

Now he could hear Dudley's tromping footsteps coming down the stairs, and soon his cousin appeared, lugging the trunk with Harry's school things with one hand and holding the broomstick in the other. Whatever unpleasant things you could say about Dudley-- and there were many-- there was no denying he had muscle under all that fat. Strong, physically, just like his ox of a father.

As Harry could personally attest.

Dudley, trying to stay as far away from Snape as possible, shoved the trunk across the floor to Harry, who quickly opened it to check everything was there. He didn't think the Dursleys would have been able to open it, but you never knew...

But it was all right, his wand and all his books and supplies were there, undisturbed. He sighed in relief and took his broomstick from Dudley, wanting to inspect it thoroughly but conscious of Snape waiting. He forced himself to give it only a brief glance; it seemed to be all right.

"That's all of my stuff now, sir," he said, looking up, and Snape nodded a curt acknowledgement.

"Very well. Let's be off, then-- I've had _quite_ enough of this residence to last me a lifetime," Snape muttered, and Harry privately agreed.

Without a backward glance at the Dursleys, Snape turned to leave, pausing only to unfreeze the senior Muggle, who stared white-faced and speechless at the two of them as they left.

Harry couldn't help himself; he gave his uncle and cousin a wave that included a rude gesture as he went out the door. If this was a dream, he was darn well going to enjoy it for as much as it was worth.


	2. One: The Knight Bus

A Season for Healing

By Dien

Summary: Circumstances lead Harry Potter to stay with Severus Snape for the summer before his seventh year-- a development neither of them expect to be happy with. But they both have a lot to learn about each other... and a lot to unlearn. And perhaps, in the process, they can each find some healing.

This will _eventually _be a romance piece. You have been warned. Don't read if the thought of Harry and Severus bothers you.

Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is G.

_Notes._ To Cedar: Oops. I think ya caught me on the question of Severus's clothes... Well, it's _nighttime._ A _cold_ nighttime. So there!

Chapter One. _In which our heroes catch a ride on wizardly transportation, and have a little conversation._

Severus Snape took a deep breath of the cool night air, forcing his tightly clenched fists to loosen and his teeth to un-grit. Those Muggles had been _lucky_ that Potter had been watching the whole scene, or he might have let himself do far worse than simply threaten and use a mild Petrifying Curse.

But the scene had aroused considerable anger within him, stirred up memories and emotions he thought he had left well behind. Only his long practice at keeping his true thoughts and words firmly under control, under the mask he presented to most people, had enabled him to stay calm and professional in there, with _those people_... 

Just thinking of them, especially of Vernon Dursley, made him want to snarl again. He entertained a brief mental image of seeing how that... _scum_... would react to Crucio...

And then Potter cleared his throat hesitantly, and Snape realized he was standing there on the Dursleys' doorstep as if he had nothing better to do. He forced himself back to the moment.

"Singularly unpleasant relatives you have, Potter," he said coolly, turning to look at the young man.

"You don't have to tell me," said the boy with a faint smile, then quickly added, "sir."

Snape ignored it and looked down at Potter's trunk and things with displeasure. "You can't Apparate yet, can you?" he asked.

"No, sir. We're supposed to learn this year."

"Hmph. I suppose there's nothing for it-- we'll have to take more... tedious forms of transportation." Irritation plain on his face, the Potions Master made his way purposefully down to the street, hearing Potter moving after him.

Once at the street, he held out his wand hand in the proscribed manner for summoning that god-awful form of so-called Transportation known as the Knight Bus.

That done he folded his arms and waited, not looking at Potter.

For a few seconds they stood there in awkward silence, Harry looking at the ground, Severus looking straight ahead of him. Then Harry asked the question that had been bothering him.

"Uh, Professor Snape?"

"What?"

"Why... um, well, why were you here tonight?"

Snape shifted impatiently. "As I said. Dumbledore sent me to inquire as to why you hadn't received or replied to your mail."

"Oh."

The silence resumed, heavy over the street. Before it could grow too oppressive, however, a flare of bright headlights shone down the street, and the large, violently purple bus approached rapidly. It pulled up in front of them with a screech of brakes and the muffled roar of an engine at idle, the doors swinging open.

"Knight Bus, at your service," a professional-sounding voice said inside. "Transportation for the stranded wizard or witch. Need a hand with any luggage?"

Severus closed his eyes unhappily. Thank God it was dark out, or the brutally ostentatious décor of the blasted bus would have bothered him more than it already did.

"Yes," he said, with a jerk of his head back at Potter's full hands. The attendant jumped out and quickly started loading Potter's things. "Get on, Potter."

He followed the boy onto the bus, saying curtly to the driver, "Two fares to Brennigan Moor-- _without_ the hot chocolate, if you don't mind."

"Right then. Two for Brennigan... that'd be thirty-two Sickles," the driver said with a look at his co-worker that seemed to say, _We've got one of _those_ sort on board tonight._. Snape ignored it and dug the money out of one of the coat pockets, glad he'd had both Muggle and wizarding currency on him.

Potter was already sitting down on one of the beds near the back, looking a bit uncomfortable, and Snape wondered if he'd ever ridden the Bus before. But he didn't suppose it mattered.

Beds. _Why_ couldn't the damn thing have chairs as well? _He_ certainly didn't intend to doze off for a little nap, and beds are neither dignified or comfortable seating. Snape muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath and stalked to the bed opposite of the one Potter had chosen, pulling out his wand.

_"Conjurare cathedram,"_ he snapped, and a medium-sized armchair dutifully appeared at the foot of the bed. He turned the chair so it faced the front of the bus, sat down, and lapsed into a moody silence.

Thankfully there were few passengers on the bus, and all, with the exception of Harry and Severus, were fast asleep.

Harry sat cross-legged on his bed, too many things filling his mind to try and sleep. He was grateful that this unfamiliar version of Professor Snape wasn't trying to engage him in any conversation-- that would have been _too_ strange, not to mention awkward. What could the two of them possibly have to talk about, even if Snape wasn't biting Harry's head off every time he spoke to him?

He wondered where they were going. Where or what was Brennigan Moor? Was it worth it to ask? For that matter, where would he be staying for the rest of the summer? And _why_, if this wasn't a dream, had Snape been so displeased with the Dursleys?

Harry sighed. Not the sort of questions you could just ask Snape... who, even if he was... _restraining_ the usual sarcasm towards him, was still acting quite in character to everyone else. As in: terse at best, cruel at worst.

The Potions Master was currently staring forbiddingly ahead with an attitude that suggested asking him a question or disturbing his sacred sulk would be akin to inviting a dragon to eat you. Not that Harry even really wanted to talk to him-- just get answers to his questions.

Harry sighed again and looked down at the quilt beneath him, using one finger to idly follow a thread for a few minutes.

His face hurt. Not the only part of him, either. But the bruises on his face were by far the most noticeable and conspicuous, and he gave a little inner flinch. How delighted Snape must have been to see them. The current lack of malice notwithstanding, Snape still hated him-- he was quite sure of that. He'd seen the look in Snape's eyes too often at school, seen the satisfaction Snape got in twisting the knife, seen too much of the man as a bastard to _quite_ accept the current... what was it? A truce? Yes, that might be the best way to describe it.

Harry bent his tousled dark head to the bedsheet once more, focusing on the pattern. It kept him from... thinking...

His hair was falling in his eyes, and he thoughtlessly lifted a hand to brush it back, forgetting what the movement might expose. The loose, too-large sleeve of his sweater slipped down his arm, revealing the marks there. Five of them, dark against the light skin of his inner wrist.

Harry heard the sound of a quick, sharp intake of breath from Snape's direction. Before he could process it, Snape was standing there before him, staring down at him. The professor grabbed his hand firmly and began examining the exposed bruises.

The boy bit back an exclamation of surprise and fought the urge to pull away as the surprisingly strong hand held his own unmercifully. Snape's dark eyes were unreadable as he gazed wordlessly at the fingerprints.

The professor's other hand, slender and deft of touch, came up to Harry's wrist, and his long fingers brushed softly against the marks. Harry again fought the flinch, the desire to yank his hand from that ruthless grasp and cover up the incriminating marks.

But in an instant, as if by magic, the hand released him. He drew his hand into his lap, back into the sleeve, where Snape couldn't see it. He realized he was shivering slightly and kept his gaze firmly on the bed sheet, not daring to look up at Snape, standing by his bed like some silent spectre.

"Your uncle?" Snape said in an amazingly soft tone, and Harry trembled. What the hell was Snape's game? He shot a glare up at his professor--

--and stopped.

The face that looked down on him held... _concern_. For _him_. From _Snape_.

The only part of his Potions Master's expression that he recognized was the fury glittering in the obsidian eyes. But not rage directed at _him_.

It was a bit of a world-shatterer to realize that Snape was genuinely angry with the Dursleys for the way they had treated him. Harry had to blink several times before he remembered that Professor Snape had asked him a question.

"I... yes," he said eloquently, his voice not seeming to work at all. Above him, Snape's expression hardened, and Harry suddenly thought that if he was in Uncle Vernon's place, he'd never, ever, ever want to meet Snape again.

"And your face?" said the voice, somewhat less gentle but still concerned. Harry shrugged. 

"Partly him. Partly Dudley-- my cousin. Partly Aunt Petunia."

Severus did a double take. "Your... aunt?" he said skeptically, thinking with mild disbelief of the skinny, shrill woman-- not the type he generally associated with physical abuse. He was surprised to see Harry's lips quirk in something like mixed amusement and embarrassment. "She threw a frying pan at me and I forgot to duck," the boy muttered sheepishly.

The professor made a soft noise that might have been a snort. "I see."

A moment's silence, then; Snape staring down at Harry, and Harry staring anywhere but at Snape. The young man untucked his legs from under him and brought his knees up to his chest. Harry clasped his hands together in front of his ankles and rested his chin on one knee, a pensive expression on his face.

The pose and the expression made him look a child again, a first-year fresh to Hogwarts. Severus closed his eyes. _So young... and yet so old._

"It's not like they actually... beat me, you know. Not exactly," Potter's quiet voice interrupted his thoughts, and he opened his eyes to look back down at the boy.

"Then _what_, 'exactly,' is it like?" Snape snapped, some of the customary harshness creeping back in, but Potter ignored the acid, went on in that thoughtful, solemn tone.

"Aunt Petunia... Well, she's Aunt Petunia. If she wants me disciplined, she leaves it up to Uncle Vernon. The frying pan thing was just, well, she sort of lost her temper that day.

"Dudley's a berk-- but that's to be expected. He trips me in the hallway-- that sort of thing. But he _doesn't_ hit me-- hasn't since my second year, I don't think. He's scared.

"And then there's Uncle Vernon. He... he's... I think it's mostly just the way he was raised. 'Spare the rod, spoil the child,' and all that," Harry said with a short, bitter laugh, his right hand moving to his bruised wrist. "And he doesn't know his own strength.

"But it's not like they _abuse_ me or anything. Not like the stuff you hear about in the papers," the boy finished, looking up at him with the strangest expression. Earnest and hesitant and insistent and broken, all at the same time.

Severus snarled something low in his throat and made an impatient gesture with his wand. The chair slid quickly over and he sat down, never taking his eyes off Potter's own.

"Don't you dare defend them," he hissed angrily. "Don't you even think about justifying or rationalizing for them. I will _not_ sit here and listen to you apologize for them, because that is the same thing as admitting they are _right_ about you. Do you understand me, Potter?"

Harry stared at him, taken aback by the intensity of his professor's words, but nodded slowly. 

Severus blinked and made himself sit back in his chair, closing his eyes and wishing to all the gods that they were _there _already.

Damnation. What _had_ he gotten himself into? Damnation indeed-- especially upon those wretched Muggle relatives of Potter's. Before tonight, it had been alright to hate Potter, simply and without complication, without any stupid shred of pity or moral quagmire-- as long as he didn't let himself think too long or analyze too deeply his reasons for that hatred. But now. Now. After he had made the mistake of feeling _sorry_ for the little bastard...

It was going to be considerably harder to summon up the usual fury, the spite and rage and desire to _stomp_ on that bloody Gryffindor arrogance that so characterized his dealings with the boy. Harder, after tonight. Snape felt a headache coming on and raised a hand to massage his temples.

Bloody _hell._ He'd been... justified, somehow, before the little twit had stood there on the doorstep looking so vulnerable, looking so beaten. It had been alright to despise him as long as Potter had been able to glare back, saying with his eyes what he didn't dare say to his face for risk of losing House points.

But now. After that look the boy had given him, trying to plead and convince all at once. Desperately seeking something from him that he wasn't sure he knew how to give. Almost laughable, really; Potter seeking consolation from _him_. Laughable indeed... if there had been anyone else for the boy to turn to.

At least _he_ had had Albus Dumbledore as a boy. A better choice by far for the title of gods-be-damned Comforter.

Snape pressed his head back into the fabric of the chair, his eyes squeezed shut and his lips pressed together in an uncompromising line. His hands curled around the carved wooden armrests in mute exasperation, and for a while he sat there, nursing anger and dark thoughts and images of his father until he forced himself off that path. He knew all too well where it led to, where it would lead to, if he allowed himself to keep following it.

When he finally opened his eyes again, Potter was half-curled up on the bed, his eyes closed and his breathing steady in the deserved sleep of the just.

Severus spared him a glare of pure envy before expelling a weary sigh and wishing for sleep himself, sleep that was unlikely to come at any hour before midnight.

And it would be nowhere near as peaceful a slumber.

Harry woke slowly, at the feel of a hand shaking his shoulder. He looked up blearily into Snape's face, momentarily confused as to whereabouts and circumstances. Sitting up and looking around produced only unfamiliar surroundings: beds and windows, all lined up... an armchair surreally planted next to his bed...

"Get up, Potter, we've arrived," a sharp voice interrupted his dreamy state. He yawned and obediently swung his legs off the bed and onto the floor.

Beds. Floor. Chair. Windows. His mind, reluctant at being wakened, gave a half-hearted attempt to sort those images into some sort of coherent order, but it was considerably easier to go where he was told to. A dark figure that he was pretty sure was Professor Snape pointed him in a direction, he stumbled where indicated, then down the stairs and out into the night.

The chill air woke him with a start. Cold, more than cold enough to make him wish for a jacket or coat, but he'd neither and stood outside the Knight Bus stamping his feet as his luggage was placed before him. With full wakefulness came back the memory of the evening and what it had entailed. He shot a glance at his watch, last year's Christmas present from Hermione. The dial's glow read a little after one in the morning, and he couldn't stifle another jaw-cracking yawn.

Looking around him in the pitch-black night didn't reveal much. The only light came from the bus, just enough to let him see a patch of asphalt-- a deserted Muggle road-- the gravel turn-off from it that he and his luggage were standing on, and a wall of foliage to his back.

Snape got off the bus and moved away from the door so that the attendant could clamber back on board. Almost immediately, the bus roared into life once more and drove off down the highway, her crazily weaving tail-lights visible for a few seconds before the bus blinked out of existence on her way to other destinations.

The night was immediately quieter, colder and darker. Harry heard Snape mutter _"Lumos"_ and the dark, at least, fled in a small radius from the tip of the Potions Master's wand. Harry blinked in the glow, rubbing his upper arms in the cold air and looking around again.

"Where are we?" he felt confident enough to ask, and Snape started.

"That's right, I hadn't told you. This," he said with a vague gesture of the wand to the surrounding area, as he stepped forward past Harry to the trees and bushes behind him, "is Brennigan Moor. Some miles west and north of York. My family home."

Harry turned, and saw behind him that which he hadn't noticed before: a large, wrought-iron gate that Snape was currently unlocking with a wave of his wand and a muttered spell. The gate creaked open slowly, and Snape turned a somewhat irritated gaze on Harry. 

"I didn't think to have the bus take us all the way to the house, so we'll have to walk up the driveway-- it's not too far," the professor said in a tone that was actually a bit apologetic.

Harry nodded philosophic acceptance, and bent down to pick up his things. Snape made a little _tch_-ing noise, and said, "Don't bother. That's what spells are for," and suited action to words with a levitating charm. Harry's things rose and floated obediently off the ground, following him when he took an experimental step forward.

He turned back to murmur brief thanks to Snape, but found the professor eyeing him skeptically. "Don't you have a coat, Potter?"

Harry winced, thinking of the tremendously ugly puke-green raincoat thing with holes in it that was his legacy from the Dursleys, currently stuffed in the bottom of the duffel. Or he could dig out his winter cloak from the trunk, either option requiring the luggage to be set back down on the ground. "Well..." he started to say.

"Never mind," Snape said tersely, rolling his eyes, and quickly shrugged out of his long dark coat. "Here. Put this on. It's a short distance to the house, and you appear to need it more than I do."

Harry blinked. Snape was holding the coat out impatiently, and he took it a bit hesitantly. Conscious of Snape waiting, he put it on.

It was rather large for him, considering that his natural slenderness had been increased by the slim diet at the Dursleys', and the fact that Snape was still taller than him by several inches. But the warmth of it was delicious on his chilled skin.

And it smelled _wonderful_. The dark wool seemed to carry all the best smells from Potions class. Nothing overpowering, just subtle aromas...

A hint of woodsmoke. Mint. Something citrus. Sassafras. The delicious spicy burning subtlety of dragonscales. Leather. Cinnamon...

Harry wanted to close his eyes and just breathe of the heavy warmth and lovely smells of the coat. Some part of his mind shook its head in disgust, screaming something like _Hello this is Professor Snape's coat you are wrapping yourself up in, the ugly git we all hate remember?_ but he wasn't paying much attention. On this oddest of nights, nothing was too unusual. He thought he might feel different in the morning, but he'd worry about that when it happened.

He focused. Snape was already walking through the gate, and with a quick glance to make sure his luggage was following, Harry followed after him.

It was an odd walk, in the dark; with the only lights the soft glow from Snape's wand and the stars overhead. The moon was hidden behind tattered clouds that swept across the sky, only occasionally showing her silver face-- though when she did, it was nearly as bright as daylight. Harry took advantage of those moments to try and look around, but was aware of nothing more than open, fairly flat terrain around him, dark shapes in the distance that might be trees, and the gravel road under his feet. He trudged after his instructor, neither of them breaking the late, late silence with words, and the walking became automatic as Harry's sleepiness settled in again. Automatic to lift your feet, to stumble occasionally over a larger stone or uneven space, and you could have been doing it forever, never had anything but this odd dreamlike journey from nowhere to nowhere in the dark, the glow bobbing ahead of you, leading you on further into the dream until even Time hesitates to follow you...

He ran smack into Snape's back when the older man stopped, and stood there blinking for a second, adjusting his glasses and coming back to himself. Snape was eyeing him from under a sardonic raised brow, and Harry managed to mutter an apology before the moon, with a perfect sense of timing, chose that moment to break free from her dark cage again.

Harry felt his jaw drop open but was too busy staring to do something about it. When Snape had said 'family home' Harry had visualized something along the lines of an older, two-or-maybe-three story Victorian thing, a little shabby around the edges... not... this. The word 'house,' he felt, was misleading, and he'd have been more comfortable with 'ancestral home,' 'manor,' or even good old-fashioned 'castle.'

Old, and stone, and big as all get-out. They were standing in front of a handful of steps that led to a massive front door of oak. It reminded Harry a bit of his first year impression of Hogwarts. Though this castle was not as big as the vast School, it vied for the title of imposing. Harry caught a glimpse of towers, turrets, windows, and lots of carved gargoyles and the like before the moon returned to hiding.

Harry followed Snape wordlessly up the stairs. His professor approached the door, which swung open as if it could sense him-- which it probably could, wizard doors being what they were. Candlelight from inside flickered out over the landing, and Harry hurried after Snape to get inside.

It was blessedly warm inside, and Harry felt his eyelids more than beginning to droop again. There wasn't a lot to see anyways-- only a very few candles were lit inside, and he got little more than an impression of an immense, high-ceilinged room with some furniture scattered around. Then he heard a pattering of little feet, and forced his eyes back open to see Snape speaking to a house-elf, then pointing at Harry. The house-elf nodded, scurried over to Harry, and grabbed his hand.

"Master Harry is wanting to be sleeping, yes?"

Master Harry attempted a whole-hearted yes, but yawned instead.

"Then Master Harry is coming with Tobble, and Tobble is showing him to a room!" squeaked the creature, and immediately started dragging Harry off towards a staircase. Too tired to argue, the boy let himself be drawn along after the elf, up stairs and around corners and through doors that all blurred together, until finally he was led through a door and into a bedroom.

The elf released his hand, and Harry stood blinking for a few seconds as soft lamps flickered into life, revealing a room he'd have to examine more later. For now, the only feature of interest was the large four-poster bed.

He wobbled towards it and fell forward, sinking gratefully into the soft surface. Within moments he was blissfully asleep. Tobble the house-elf regarded him skeptically for a few moments, then pried off the sleeping human's shoes, extinguished the lights, and softly closed the door.


	3. Two: Then the Morning Comes ::cue Smash ...

A Season for Healing

By Dien

Summary and disclaimer in part one.

Thanks to Ran for pointing out about the book thing. It has been changed!

Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is G.

Chapter Two. _In which the morning after occurs. Blindingly brilliant chapter summaries I've got here, hmm?_

Harry slowly blinked his eyes, feeling deliciously warm. The covers were wonderfully, amazingly soft and heavy, the pillows thick and plush, the mattress under him beautifully yielding.

_Hmm. Not my school bed--it's not this big, nor this nice. Therefore, still dreaming. Any minute, Aunt Petunia will bang on the cupboard door._

He waited. 

And waited.

There was a distinct lack of banging going on here. Perhaps Aunt Petunia had overslept? Finally, unable to take the curiosity anymore, he opened his eyes completely.

There was a fascinating ceiling of a faded gold colour high above him. Sunlight played across it in pretty dappled patterns. He mused on it for a few moments, letting his eyes travel down to one corner of it, then start on the walls. They were of the same faded gold color, with the addition of some wall hangings on them. Emerald green wall hangings. He fumbled for his glasses, finding them instinctively on the night-table next to the bed. 

With them on, he could see that the emerald green wall hangings had little gold-embroidered serpents writhing their way around the edges, with other scenes playing themselves out on the tapestries proper. He let his eyes move lower.

They encountered an armoire. It was of beautiful dark glossy wood, elegantly but not ostentatiously carved, and the serpent motif was repeated in the carvings too. Beneath the piece of furniture was a well-worn but impeccably varnished hardwood floor, the wood a warm sandy color that went with the wallpaper. A few thick green rugs were scattered around on it.  

Harry finally let his gaze move side to side as well as top to bottom. More furniture, all pieces similar to the armoire in style and coloring. A standing mirror stood in one corner of the rather large room. (Alright, _enormous_ room. The ceiling was high,  and it was easily the biggest bedroom he'd ever been in.) 

On the wall to his right was a pair of open French doors-- the source of the sunlight, it seemed-- framed by lightweight curtains of the same colour of the walls. They fluttered gently in the morning breeze. Through them, he caught a glimpse of a small wrought-iron balcony.

Ahead of him was the wall with the armoire and other furniture, as well as a door, slightly ajar, through which he could see a tile floor and the edge of a sink. The bathroom, then.

To his left, there was the nightstand, some more furniture, a door that he very vaguely remembered coming in through the night before, and a house-elf. Harry blinked a bit and would have jumped if he hadn't been feeling quite so contented.

"Good morning, sir," the house-elf said with a deep bow, and Harry wondered how long the creature had been standing there... and nearly forgot to reply as he stared at the house-elf-- if such it truly was.

He seemed on the tall side for a house-elf, and his features had a not-quite-right cast to them (the nose in particular seemed to be longer and more pointed), but what caught the eye most was his clothing. Rather than the usual 'tunic,' this elf was garbed in a full butler's suit, from shiny black shoes to waistcoat to the miniature pair of half-moon glasses he wore. He stood with such an attitude of decorum and formality that Harry was hard pressed to think this was the same sort of creature as Dobby.

"Ah... good morning," he replied hesitantly. "Er..."

"My name is Wiggin, Master Potter," the creature said with another bow, then pushed his glasses back up his nose with one long finger. When Harry showed no sign of recognition at this pronouncement, the elf looked pained and continued, "I am Master Snape's chief house-elf and valet."

_Snape!_ Harry had been in a particular dreamy state of half-remembrance concerning last night's events, but now it all came flooding back. He shot a glance down. Yep, he was still wearing the Potion Master's coat over his own clothes. The house-elf coughed delicately, and he quickly returned his attention to the creature.

"I apologize for not showing you to your room last night, but I was busy in another part of the house. Hence, Master Snape had to make do with," a pained expression here, "one of the... _others _that was more readily at hand."

"Oh. Yes. Tobble," Harry said, remembering the much more stereotypical house-elf that had brought him to the room. 

Wiggin frowned disapprovingly. "Indeed. Tobble. I trust his service was satisfactory?"

"Uh... yeah... you don't talk like other house-elves," Harry said without thinking, then cursed his inability to phrase something eloquently or tactfully. The elf sniffed, as delicately as he had coughed earlier.

"I should think not, sir," he said a bit stiffly, and Harry realized he had managed to offend a house-elf. "I am _not_ your average house-elf; nor, to be strictly speaking, am I a house-elf at all."

"Oh?" was all Harry could think to say.

"Indeed not. I am one-third goblin, in matter of fact. In any case, sir, I was sent to see whether or not you were awake yet, and if you were, whether or not you would be desirous of something to eat."

Harry realized that he was ravenously hungry-- not too surprising since his last meal had been a disappointingly small lunch at the Dursleys' the day before. He put the matter of the distressing (some might say impossible) fraction in Wiggin's heritage aside for the moment. "Breakfast would be great, Wiggin."

"Very good, sir-- although, since it's nearly ten o'clock, brunch might be a more appropriate term," replied the not-strictly-speaking-a-house-elf. Wiggin then stepped back and to one side, revealing a cart that Harry hadn't noticed before with a white cloth draped over it. With a flourish, the chief house-creature of Brennigan Moor pulled off the covering cloth to reveal a meal fit for royalty.

Harry stared at the spread for about two seconds before throwing back the covers and sitting up. In an instant, he was enthusiastically partaking of the scrambled eggs, waffles, bacon, toast, orange juice, hash browns, pancakes, and fresh fruit that was laid out before him.

As he took a momentary pause to smear some strawberry jam on a piece of perfectly-toasted toast, he said, "You guys didn't have to, um, do all this..."

"Nonsense," said Wiggin briskly. "Nezzy-- she's the head cook-- was more than delighted to prepare the meal-- we get guests so rarely... and one is hardly going to get anything less than the full hospitality of Snape Manor while they _are _here," he finished, an odd wistful note in his voice.

Harry wisely didn't comment on it, saying instead, "I thought Sn-- Professor Snape said this place was called Brennigan Moor?"

"The _grounds_ are called Brennigan Moor. We are located on about 250 acres, to the north-west of the city of York," said the house-elf in a tone faintly reminiscent of a tour guide. "The _house_ is Snape Manor, and has in one form or another served as the home of the Snape family from 1032 A.D. to the present day. We predate the Norman Conquest," Wiggin said with a touch of pride, then added hastily, "Not me _personally_, of course. I'm a relatively recent addition to the family-- employed by the Snapes for fifty-one years now."

"Oh," Harry mumbled again, though this time his reticence was due to a large chunk of syrup-doused waffle in his mouth. He struggled to swallow, finally succeeding with the help of some tea. "So... you've worked for the family for a while, then? You probably knew Snape when he was a kid?"

"Indeed. In fact, because of his parents' reticence to hire a more traditional teacher or to do it themselves, I served as he and his sister's tutor until they were old enough to go to school."

"Snape has a _sister?!"_ Harry said around a mouthful of egg. Wiggin tried not to notice the boy had spoken with his mouth full, though he was unable to hide a slight wince. "Ah-- yes. His junior by three years. Siobhan by name."

Harry tried hard to imagine a female version of Snape and failed miserably, the only image he could conjure being the boggart-Snape with the red hand-bag from their third year.

"What... uh, what's she like?"

The elf suddenly looked quite reluctant to say any more. "Ah-- she's 'like' a Snape, of course. Is the food satisfactory?" he said in a rather loud tone of voice, and Harry got the impression the elf felt guilty for 'gossiping' about his employers.

"It's great," he murmured, realizing he was starting to get full. "Really good. Give... uh, Nezzy, right? Give her my compliments."

"Of course, sir."

"Hey, can I ask a question?"

Wiggin's expression became a bit guarded, but he nodded.

"How many house-elves do you guys have here? There's Nezzy, there's you, there's Tobble..."

"Ah," said Wiggin, seemingly relieved the question wasn't going to be more intrusive into what he clearly regarded as Things Guests Shouldn't Pry Into. "There's... mm... twenty-six of us, if you count the garden elves." His expression indicated he didn't.

"Twenty-six? Just to look after Snape and his sister?" said Harry, wondering if the Potions Master didn't have _other_ relatives he was unaware of. Somehow, he really didn't think Snape was the family man type.

Wiggin seemed a bit defensive. "Well, the grounds and house require a lot of looking after, you know. And the Snape family used to be _much_ larger-- not to mention the parties and the guests. _Constant_ balls and masques and my goblin ancestors know what else... ahem. Are you done, Master Potter?"

"Mmm. Yes. I'm stuffed," Harry said contentedly, taking one last sip from his orange juice.

"Then I imagine you'll be wanting a shower next?" said Wiggin with a nod toward the bathroom door. Harry rather thought that would be a good idea and got out of bed.

One of the green carpets was plush under his stockinged feet, and he wondered when he'd taken off his shoes, which he couldn't remember doing. He shrugged and started towards the bathroom door. Wiggin, busy clearing away dishes and food, called after him, "If you'll set your clothes outside the door, Master Potter, we'll see to it they're washed..."

Harry nodded absent-mindedly, busy looking around with delight as he entered the bathroom, which was thankfully fairly modern in appearance. (Eighteenth century décor is all very well in a bedroom but not quite so convenient for the bath.) It had a lot of white tile and marble, with the green-gold colour scheme reproduced in towels, carpets and plumbing fixtures. The serpent motif was still visible, if less obvious than in the bedroom. The bathtub, a deep sunken affair of white marble with jade-green streaks, was absolutely huge and called inexorably to the soul.

Harry wondered if the Savoy Hotel was like this. No, he realized as the bathtub automatically filled itself with aromatic bubble baths and steaming hot water, this had to be better than the Savoy. After all, that didn't have magic.

He shucked out of his clothes and the professor's Muggle coat, tentatively set them back down outside the door, and turned to confront the divine bath.

"Let's get to know each other, hmm?"

Half an hour later, Harry felt indescribably good-- better than he had since summer had started, in fact. The meal-- a _full_ meal, thank God, as much as he wanted and not celery like at the Dursleys' because stupid Dudley was _still_ on a forced diet-- and the lovely bath-- which was also a pretty unparalleled experience. It went without saying that he had never had such a bath at Privet Drive, and even at Hogwarts, he'd rarely had the luxury to loll in the prefects' baths-- which even so weren't _quite_ on the same scale as this one. He felt like a new person.

He emerged from the bathroom, toweling his hair dry, and dressed in some clothes from his trunk. Neither Wiggin nor any of the other elves were in evidence, and after a moment's hesitation, he decided he'd best stay in the room and wait for further instructions. He didn't think Snape would take too kindly to his wandering freely about the house.

Instead he went out onto the little balcony and looked around. He was fairly high up-- perhaps three stories up? and could see some gardens and paths below. The trimmed bushes and neat paths (probably the work of the house elves) extended a short distance from the house, then a less orderly terrain took over. Tall grass and tangled weeds and hedges seemed to encroach on the tidy civilized yard. Eventually, the ground rose into gentle undulations, not-quite-hills that became a flat line on the horizon.

A polite knocking at the door interrupted him before he could examine the view more closely. He turned and told the knocker to come in.

It was Wiggin, returning after taking clothes and dishes to be cleaned. Harry went back inside and sat down on one of the chairs without being told to, thinking that this particular house-elf reminded him uncannily of Professor McGonagall. He could just see Wiggin giving him detention for not having washed behind his ears.

Instead the elf looked him over with an appraising eye. Harry was distinctly conscious of his uncombed hair and somewhat threadbare jeans, but there was little he could do about it now. A sudden bizarre image flashed through Harry's head of the elf checking for dirt under a young Severus Snape's fingernails, and the teenager struggled not to laugh.

Finally the elf nodded with a sort of 'it'll-have-to-do' expression. "I trust the bath--"

"Was satisfactory, yes, thank you, Wiggin," said Harry with an impudent smile. There was a certain fun in tweaking the oh-so-proper elf. Wiggin looked pained-- Harry thought it was probably the creature's usual expression-- but only nodded.

"Then, Master Potter, let me convey Master Snape's instructions.

"The room is at your disposal until 'some other place for you to stay the summer' is found. You may have meals either brought to your room or, if you so desire, take them in the great hall or the kitchen..." 

Harry listened with half an ear. It had been silly to think he'd be staying here, of course, and he honestly didn't want to stay with Professor _Snape _all _summer_, even if the room and board put luxury hotels to shame...

He brought his attention back to the house-creature, who was saying. "...says that he may be found in the library tower if there are any problems. Is that satisfactory, Master Potter?"

Master Potter didn't want to admit he'd missed about half the speech, and instead settled for asking where the heck the library tower was. Wiggin, of course, looked pained.

"When you exit the room, you go down the corridor to your right, take the first turn to the left, go down the stairs, then-- oh, never mind. One moment."

The elf reached inside his vest pocket and produced a roll of parchment, which he quickly spread out for Harry to see. It was a blueprint of the estate, but the floors of the building were all drawn on top of each other, making the house an unintelligible mess of lines and rooms.

"Uh, how..." Harry began. Wiggin sighed. "You have a wand, I presume?"

"Yes," Harry answered, fishing in his trunk for the valuable item.

"Good. Tap the parchment and say 'Abrio."

Harry did as he was told and was delighted when a field of light unfolded from the surface of the map, creating a three-dimensional, slightly transparent hologram of the house on the map's surface.

The elf stuck one long finger through the north wall, ignoring the slight crackle of magic that occurred when he did so, and pointed at one room that seemed to glow faintly golden. In it were two dots: one red and one blue. As the elf's finger hovered near them, letters appeared next to the dots. Red text spelled out 'Harry Potter' over the appropriate dot, and blue letters proclaimed 'Wiggin.'

"Awesome," said Harry with a grin. This was-- almost-- better than the Marauder's Map-- the 3-D part was something, all right.

"Indeed," said Wiggin dryly. "In any case, this golden room is yours, and the two dots obviously represent us. Over here," his hand moved to point at a large tower to the northmost part of the house, "is the library, and this green dot is Master Snape. Now, since you're new and giving directions in this house is practically impossible, I suggest you keep the map for now. We have others. Will that be satisfactory, Master Potter?"

"Definitely," Harry said, still entranced by the parchment.

"Excellent, sir. Then I leave you to your own devices," said the creature with another low bow, then backed out the door before Harry could even thank him for the assistance and breakfast.

Harry spent a good half-hour examining the map and trying to get a feel for the layout of the house. It was good he had the map, too, because the house was large enough you'd have a hard time of it on foot.

In general shape, the place resembled a bottom-heavy pentagon. The bottom-heavy part was a large, rectangular shape that held most of the actual rooms of the house. From its topmost corners, however, the lines of two stone battlements stretched north, then turned to meet each other. At the apex of their joining was the library tower. 

Harry looked around the hologram of the manor with interest. There were an awful lot of blue dots around, which he soon realized were all house-elves. He had fun locating Tobble, Wiggin, and the-as-yet-not-met Nezzy, who was in the kitchens. There were also three silvery dots whose respective names, when looked at, were Amelia Snape, Casimir Snape-Malfoy, and Lucien McGonagall. The names alone started him wondering. A half-Snape Malfoy? That _did NOT_ sound good... And exactly what was a McGonagall doing around Snape Manor? He wondered if they were guests. But Wiggin had said they rarely got guests..? 

Harry shook his head in confusion. It was something he'd have to ask about. There were also a large number of small white and brown dots in one of the smaller towers, but they were without names. The room itself was labeled 'Owlery,' and he realized they were probably birds. A black dot was nearby the owlery, and moving his finger near it produced the name 'Poe.'

An orange dot labeled 'Macavity' was moving along one of the hallways, and finally a grey dot named 'Fenris Ulf' was stationary on one of the stairways.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Harry rolled up the map, the hologram winking out when he did so, and set out to find Snape. If nothing else, he had to ask where he'd be going for the rest of the summer.

The map was extraordinarily useful; he ended up opening it three times before he even got to the ground floor. Without it he knew he'd have been hopelessly lost. Finally he was in the huge room he remembered coming in through the night before. It was a sort of great hall, a little like the one at Hogwarts (if smaller). A pair of doors at the rear led out to an open space.

The courtyard, enclosed by the battlements and towers, had been paved over at one point, but grass was beginning to peek through the flagstones in more than a few places. All Harry could think of was what a great place it would be to fly around in-- about the size of a Quidditch field, all told. But directly ahead was the library tower, and remembering that he was looking for his professor, he ambled in the tower's general direction.

The entrance was actually up a small flight of stairs that curved to follow the bend of the tower's side, and Harry frowned at the map. According to it, the green dot that represented Snape was on the ground level, same as him. Apparently, the first floor of the library started higher up, with a room beneath it housing Snape.

Curious to see what the tower looked like on the inside, he climbed the stairs and opened the heavy oak door at the top.

Inside, he stopped and stared, feeling his jaw drop. 'Library tower' suggested to him a, well, tower, with several floors, each one holding a few assorted shelves with books.

Instead, he was standing inside a hollow cylinder of books. The interior walls were literally _covered_ with endless shelves, the only break being intermittent tall narrow windows that let in the summer sunlight. No floors disrupted the four stories of books, but two wrought-iron spiral staircases slithered their way up to the top of the tower, occasional landings branching off from them.

Also occupying the space overhead was a dragon skeleton, held in the air by a combination of spells and wires. Sunlight shafted through the bare bones, ribcage, and outstretched wings to dance across the bookshelves and stairs, the largest amount of light pouring in from the top of the tower. There, the bookshelves ceased and the walls gave themselves up to become glass. Eight glass panes surrounded another landing at the juncture of the two staircases. 

There were at least ten thousand books in the library, and even Harry, not the most studious of people, found himself eager to look through the shelves. (Hermione would have gone quite simply lustful.) But how did one get to them? The staircases only passed certain areas of the books, and whole sectors would be off limits... 

Harry brought his gaze, with effort, down from the view overhead to the ground floor. Several comfortable chairs and a large table filled the space, and the question of how one got to certain shelves was solved by the sight of two or three carpets leaning, rolled up, against the table. Magic carpets! You _flew_ to get to the books... This really was a library after his own Quidditch-playing heart, he reflected. But why not use broomsticks?

Then he realized it would probably be easier to carry books down on a carpet than on a broom. Well, that made sense. He looked around further, dragging his eyes away from the carpets (and the temptation they represented), and saw the trapdoor.

Well, _that _solved the question of where Snape was, at least. Set into the flagstones of the floor, the door was an immense and ancient construct of black oak and iron. Thankfully, it was currently in the open position, which saved Harry the trouble of trying to lift that weight. He stepped all the way inside the tower, shutting the tower's door behind him.

"Wiggin, can you get me some more mandrakes from the garden, please? I believe I've run out down here," came Snape's voice from the hole in the floor. Harry realized that he had never, ever heard Snape said 'please' to anyone.

Well. The day was just _full _of surprises, wasn't it?

"Um. It's not Wiggin, Professor," he said cautiously, not sure how things stood between them now. Did last night's truce hold, or was it back to the familiar, usual snarking?

There was a pause. Then Snape's voice said, "Potter. I see you've made it to the Tower."

"Yes, sir," Harry answered hesitantly, not sure if he was supposed to go down to Snape or continue yelling awkwardly down to wherever his professor lurked. The dilemma was solved as he heard footsteps coming up stairs, and in a second, Snape's head (rendered a bit odd-looking by a bulky pair of tinted safety goggles he was wearing) emerged from the trapdoor followed by his body.

Besides the goggles, the professor was wearing a pair of dark, sturdy trousers tucked into the tops of his heavy boots; an old and very worn-in white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows; a pair of heavy dragonhide gloves, and a stained, heavy-duty canvas apron over the shirt and trousers. 

Harry stifled a grin. He'd always thought flowing robes weren't the most practical thing to wear when working on potions, and it appeared Snape agreed with him-- at least here, when he wasn't teaching a class and having to do impressive-swishing-dramatic-exits with the robes.

With brisk, business-like motions, Snape pulled off his gloves and tossed them onto the large table, then pushed the protective eyewear up to his forehead. His black eyes, once more revealed, fixed Harry with a ruthless stare. He crossed his arms and regarded the boy for a few seconds, an _Expression _on his face.

Harry studied the flagstones under his feet with fanatic devotion. Of all the Snape Glares (he and Ron had spent a study hall cataloguing a list of the Twelve Distinct Snape Glares) he thought he disliked number five-- the You-Have-Been-Measured-And-Found-Wanting-Look-- the most... though this needed the slight, sneering lift of the lip to become a full-blown Number Five. Right now, it was still stuck in the 'Measuring' state.

(Thinking of it reminded Harry that they'd have to make an addendum. Number Thirteen would now be the Reserved-For-Dursleys Stare, otherwise known as the I'd-Kill-You-Painfully-If-I-Could-Stand-Your-Disgusting-Presences-Long-Enough-To-Mutter-A-Curse Glare.)

Snape broke the silence first, though his eyes didn't looked away. "I trust you've eaten?"

"Uh, yes, sir."

"And Wiggin has given you basic instructions?"

"Yes, sir."

Pause. Snape arched an eyebrow sarcastically, opened his mouth as if to say something scathing, then shut it again. His black eyes left Harry's face to stare up into the surrounding wall of books. 

"Then what, may I ask, merits the interruption?" he asked softly. Harry felt suddenly silly. Exactly _why_ had he come down here and interrupted Snape at his work? Dumb. Dumb, dumb, _dumb_.

_Need a reason. A good reason._

"Um... well, just-- I was just wondering-- if we'd-- you'd figured out I'd where I'd be staying for the summer. Yet."

"Ah." The Potions Master uncrossed his arms and moved to the nearest of the armchairs to seat himself gracefully. The long-fingered hands steepled themselves at his chin, elbows on the armrests, and the dark eyes once more returned to Harry.

"I owled Headmaster Dumbledore regarding that last night, after we got in. His reply came about an hour ago, words to the effect that _he_ had no immediately available place for you to stay, and, unless there was some sort of insurmountable objection on our parts, that you might as well stay here. I did consider trying to express the fact that mutual loathing can be considered an 'insurmountable objection,' but I rather doubt he'd have taken me seriously.

"So. Potter. Do _you_ have any suggestions for your place of summer residence?"

Harry paused. A sudden, appealing mental image of the Burrow flashed into his head, the rambunctious clannishness of the Weasley gang-- and he knew Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would be delighted to offer him a home for the summer if he asked.

But... a nagging sense of guilt interfered. The Weasleys had hearts as big as Zonko's warehouse, but Harry had to admit their finances weren't really up to supporting yet another mouth at the table. And they were too proud to accept any sort of recompensation...

With a sigh, Harry realized he wasn't going to impose on the Weasleys. 

And who else was there, really? Hermione and her parents? Oh, they might not mind a friend staying for a week or so, but he rather thought they'd be less sanguine about the whole of summer hols.

And the one man whom he should have been allowed to stay with-- his godfather, Sirius Black-- still labeled under prejudice and accusations of guilt. While the Ministry had formally (if grudgingly) declared him innocent of the Potters' murder last year, public opinion was slower and harder to change. Sirius had tried to settle down twice now, and both times been so harassed or ostracized by wizarding neighbors that he'd found it more convenient to move on, rather than risk confrontations. He currently was somewhere in... Romania, Harry thought-- but didn't know for sure since he hadn't been allowed his mail! _Damn_ the Dursleys, anyway.

He dragged himself away from that unpleasant train thought by remembering that Snape had asked him a question.

"Uh, no, sir. I don't really... know anywhere..."

"Very well. Until something opens up, I suppose you'll have to stay here. We," here he paused, dropping his hands from his chin and giving Harry an almost-smile, "shall simply have to endeavor to stay out of each other's way as much as possible.

"But it's a large house. That shouldn't be too much of a problem," Snape said with a shrug, seemingly resigned to his fate. His lean arms were now resting on the chair's arms, long fingers drumming idly on the carved end-knobs, and Harry felt his eyes drawn surely, compellingly, to the left forearm.

With the professor's shirtsleeves still rolled up from his potions work, the Dark Mark was clearly visible, even if not as dark as it had been once before. A serpent and skull were burned into the pale skin, forever caught in the middle of a writhing dance, forever frozen, but the tendons moving under the flesh gave them a disturbing semblance of life.

Snape must have felt the impact of Harry's stare, or perhaps noted the lack of response to his words. He looked down from a perusal of the ceiling, his black eyes following Harry's gaze. When he saw the object of the look, he seemed to pale slightly, then pulled his shirtsleeve down to cover the Mark.

Harry realized he hadn't seen it since the end of his fourth year and the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Not, of course, that he'd had many opportunities to-- Snape always, always, wore long sleeves and full robes at school-- but it was odd, how clearly a thing could stay in your mind...

Snape stood abruptly, unfolding his long frame from the chair with startling speed and brusqueness.

"Now that that's settled, Mr. Potter, was there anything else you needed to discuss with me?"

It took Harry a moment to realize Snape was talking about the lodging, not the Mark. He tore his eyes away from the man's lean, sinewy forearm to meet his gaze again.

"Well, now that you mention it, I'd like to send some owls, and I had a few questions about the residence..."

"Very well. We'll talk on the way to Owlery. Come along."


	4. Three: My Furry Friends and I

A Season for Healing

By Dien

Summary and disclaimer in part one.

Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is PG-13 or R for language, and we see angry Severus.

Notes: I have no intent of a Snape/Lily romance being revealed here, before you ask (or threaten). J KDay2: You caught the Narnia ref! Yay! Eventually, I will have a tidbit on why Snape named the animals as he did.

Chapter Three. _In which we meet some of the other residents of Snape Manor._

Severus Snape felt his hands tighten into fists as he led the way up one of the library's wrought-iron staircases. He had kept his voice normal with an effort when he'd told Potter to follow him to the owlery.

But-- that _look_. So very familiar; so very hated. He remembered the expression on James Potter's face as the man had seen the Dark Mark on his arm. The disgust, the loathing, the fear, the hatred. Bastard Gryffindor. The smug bastard had no right to judge.

_He_ didn't know what it was like. He didn't know, and he had no right to look like God Almighty, righteous judgment in the blue eyes, telling him to get out of his house, get away from his wife.

And the bloody Boy-Who-Lived, in yet another repeat of history, looking at him, at the mark, the same damn way. Green eyes this time, staring at him from the first Potter's face. 

He had had to bite his tongue, bite back the venom and acid, force himself not to react. Make himself think of the hurting, wounded Harry Potter of last night, and that was the only way he had managed to refrain from biting the boy's head off.

He was so tired of being judged by bloody Potters. Father and son-- bastards both, so alike, and Lily hadn't made any difference in the son...

Severus took a deep, calming breath, than another. _I'm a rational man, damnit, I am _not_ going to let emotion and a childish grudge control me--_

**Childish? The bastard damn near killed you, he damn well fucked up your life, and now his bloody son wants to look at me and judge, I'm not--**__

_I _am_ in control, damnitall! I am. I _am_. Reason, not emotion. Deal with the situation like a professional. You _are_ a professional, are you not, Snape?_

_A professional and a Slytherin and a Snape. _Act_ like one. And damned if I'll let the Hero of the Wizarding World, James Potter's bastard son, see me shaking._

He kept his steps precise, taking the stairs one by one by one. By the time they reached the third floor landing, his breathing had returned to normal, and Potter, behind him, seemed none the wiser.

The third floor landing butted up against the tower wall, and the door that led out to the battlements. Not caring if Potter was keeping up, he opened the door and strode out into the morning sunlight.

The wall he stood atop was about fifteen feet thick, more than broad enough to walk along. Ramparts to his left faced the outside world; to his right he could see down into the courtyard. Snape began to walk towards the owlery tower with long quick strides over the flagstones.  He smiled slightly as Potter had to half-jog to keep up.

"Your home is fantastic, professor," the boy said hesitantly from beside him. He rolled his eyes. What was the brat trying to do, make conversation? He grunted in response.

Potter was not to be dismayed. "I mean, it's huge! And the library is amazing... Is that a real dragon's skeleton?"

_Oh shut _up_, Potter. Damn cheerful polite Gryffindor. I don't _want_ to talk to you._

"Yes, it's real. I believe my great-great-grandfather killed it on a hunting expedition. This was before hunting dragons was made illegal, of course."

"Oh."

"'Oh,' indeed."

_Be _civil,_ Severus. The boy's been abused by his Muggle relatives. You can treat him like a human being for once._

**Even if it's too much to expect the same courtesy in return.**

_Oh? Then what's he doing? He's trying to be polite, you know, he's making an _effort--

**Oh shut _up_. I'm _being _civil, damnit.**

_This is going to be a long summer._

As they approached the owlery tower, a black blur took off from its conical, shingled roof in a flurry of dark wings. Snape held out his hand, and the large raven alighted on it with a croak.

"Good morning, Poe. What have you been up to today?" Severus sighed, using his free hand to pet the bird's head.

The raven let out another hoarse caw, turning a beady golden gaze on Potter, standing hesitantly nearby. Snape rolled his eyes again.

"It's all right, he's a guest. You can talk."

"You didn't tell me we had a guest, Severus," the bird croaked reproachfully, and Severus was amused to see Potter start. Well, it was true that even in the wizarding world, talking animals were not _common_. 

"He just got in last night. You weren't around to tell," he said in a conciliatory tone of voice. "Shall I introduce you?"

Poe made a harsh noise that meant a polite yes, despite the sound of it. Snape turned and held out the bird to Potter.

"Potter, this is Poe. He's one of the resident menagerie, which you should probably meet if you'll be staying. Poe, this is Harry Potter-- yes, _that_ Harry Potter. Say hello."

"Hello," Poe squawked obediently, cocking his dark head to one side and observing the boy. "Severus neglects to mention that I am the only _useful_ member of the resident menagerie... how long are you staying, Harry Potter?"

"Uh," the Potter boy said eloquently, taken a little bit off-guard. "Um, probably all summer."

"Really?" Poe said politely, with a little bird-like nod. Snape hid a smile. It had been a while since he'd introduced Poe to anyone new, and he was so used to the raven that he'd forgotten how much Poe tended to evoke double and triple takes.. He petted the raven's glossy dark feathers absently, watching the bird's eyes veil over with content.

"So you're the 'useful' member of the menagerie, Poe?"

"I'm certainly the most --_brrawwk-_ intelligent," the bird said. "Why?"

"Because I want you go and fetch Macavity and Fenris."

The bird opened his eyes in irritation. "_Must_ I?" he said with a very human-like indignation.

"You must. If Potter's going to be staying here all summer, he needs to meet everyone, and they need to know he's a guest. I don't fancy telling Albus Dumbledore that my pet wolf chewed up the Boy Who Lived because of a misunderstanding," Severus muttered.

"Ah. When is the Headmaster going to visit again? We have not seen him for a while now," the bird complained.

"I haven't the faintest. He's a busy man. And stop whining-- you can fly up to Hogwarts and visit him whenever you like."

"_Braawk. _Not the same," Poe croaked with what would have been a sigh, from a human throat.

"Just go and get Mac and Fenris, will you?" Severus sighed.

"If I _must_. Nice meeting you, Harry Potter," the bird cawed, then took off with another flurry of wings.

"The inimitable Poe," Snape said wryly, looking after the bird with a smile, then remembered himself and schooled his face back into the usual sour lines he wore around Potter. That made him resentful, too; just as holidays were the time he had to himself, away from students, so was home the place where he could be himself... where his reactions were not under constant scrutiny, where things were _simple_.

Potter's presence here changed that.

He sighed and opened the tower door, leading the way into the avian chaos that was the owlery.

Some thirty birds fluttered around the round tower room, predominately owls, but a few other species were mixed in too, such as the falcon (in its own cage, for the safety of the others) for emergency messages requiring speed. The number of birds was yet another legacy of the past, like the house-elves: he had no need for so many, yet there was no real reason to get rid of them.

Potter followed him in and closed the door, looking around him with wide eyes. Severus ignored the boy's curiosity-- _If he has questions, he can ask Wiggin. I'm _not_ a bloody tour guide-- _and looked for the little tawny owl that was his favorite for messages.

The small brown owl was perched on one of the posts in the room, hooting softly. Though the tawny owl is by nature a nocturnal creature, the owls of the Snape family had been bred to be alert whenever their masters might need them. 

Snape grabbed one of the heavy leather handling gloves, hanging on a row of wall hooks, and put it on before extending his hand to the owl. He trusted Poe with his bare flesh, but the owls had sharp talons.

The tawny owl let out a soft '_whoo_' and climbed onto his gloved hand. He lifted his free hand and stroked the large head gently, smoothing ruffled feathers with an ease born of long practice.

"This is Aluco, and she's probably the best message owl," he said to Potter, standing behind him. "After her, you can use either Strix or Symphony, they're the two on that perch over there, and likely to be the most gentle.

"It's up to your own _discretion_, of course, but I recommend wearing gloves when dealing with any of the birds. I don't send owls that often, so they're pretty much left to their own devices. Consequently, they're not as tame as, say, the Hogwarts ones. Any questions?"

"Can I keep Hedwig-- my owl-- here, sir?"

Snape frowned. That's right, didn't the boy have an owl of his own? "Where is your owl?"

"I left her with a friend for the summer-- she wouldn't have been happy at the Dursleys'."

"Ah. Yes. You can have her sent to you... she'll be fine here, I imagine."

"Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome," Snape said stiffly, and set Aluco back down on the perch. God, had he gotten so venomous towards Potter that even a simple civil exchange was hard for him? He shook his head minutely.

"In that box over there is spare parchment, quills, ink, etc., if you want to write a message directly from here. I think that covers the owlery," he said brusquely, and Potter nodded. "Did you want to send your messages now, or...?"

"I can send them later," the boy said quietly. Severus nodded and turned back to the door. He yanked it open--

And a ginger-colored streak of lightning flashed by his legs.

"Macavity, NO!" he shouted angrily, as the birds erupted into understandable chaos. "_Damn_ it..."

He drew his wand, ducked the swooping and terrified owls, and tried a calming charm over as much of the room as it would cover. The mad whirr of wings and feathers subsided enough for him to see, and he shot out his hand to grab the lynx firmly the scruff of the neck.

"_How-- many-- times-- do I have to tell you-- you are NOT allowed in the owlery?"_ he hissed, shaking the lynx furiously. "_Damn_ it, Macavity, you've gone and traumatized th-- _SPIT THAT BIRD OUT! **NOW!**"_

With a disgruntled hiss around her mouthful of feathers, the tawny lynx obeyed, dropping an unfortunate blackbird onto the tower floor. Severus picked up the poor stunned bird, and used a general Mental and Physical Well-Being Blessing on it before returning it to one of the nests. 

Then, with Old Testament, Biblical wrath flashing in his dark eyes, he turned on the lynx.

"Macavity. _Out_," he growled in a tone that brooked no contradictions. 

The cat sulked. Severus glared. The cat began to lick a paw with rebellious laziness, but her master moved one booted foot in what was clearly the forewarning of a kick, and she thought better of it. With practiced indifference, she stalked out of the tower door.

Severus sighed and gestured for a wide-eyed Harry Potter to exit as well, then made sure the door was _firmly_ closed behind him when he exited.

"I apologize for the shouting," he snarled with a dark glare for the feline, "but volume is the only way to get this _abominable_ creature to _do_ anything. Harry Potter, may I introduce the next of the... _wonderful_ talking beasts, Macavity the lynx."

Macavity sat in the sunlight with total lack of concern, licking her fur and ignoring Harry. Severus rolled his eyes.

"Yes, she _can_ understand English, and speak it as well. She simply pretends not to a great deal of the time, as she enjoys making people think she's nothing more than an overlarge, over-fed, under-brained house cat. The best policy is to ignore her, as she will most certainly do with you. Unless you really impress her, which is nigh impossible.

"Macavity, this is Harry Potter. Don't claw him.

"And that concludes _that_ introduction."

He glared at the cat as he finished his speech, but she was already stretching out along the stone walkway, a low contented purr emanating from her throat as she steadfastly ignored both Snape and the newcomer.

"Annoying beast," he said under his breath. The cat cracked one green eye with a distinctly gleeful expression on her feline face, and solemnly winked at him. It was rather impossible to stay mad at Macavity for any amount of time. He grudgingly relented, bending down to scratch the lynx behind her tufted ears.

Potter was blinking a bit and looked like he was trying to hide a smile or outright laugh. Severus flushed a bit-- he no doubt looked fairly ridiculous-- and stood up abruptly, brushing the cat hair from his hands.

"Now," he said loudly, "there remains only the third and somewhat less irritating animal... Fenris should be here shortly." He looked down into the courtyard, one of the wolf's favorite basking places, but the animal was nowhere to be seen.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry reach down tentatively to pet the lynx. A pleasing mental image of the large cat attacking with a whirl of claws and teeth filled his mind, but he ground down on it angrily. He _was_ going to be civil, dammit, even if it killed him.

Which it very well might.

There was a _whirr_ of black wings, and Poe landed on his shoulder with a soft caw. "Fenris Ulf is on his way, Severus. Any more errands, or may I be released?"

"Go," he sighed, gesturing, and the raven launched himself airwards with a harsh caw. A few flaps of the black wings took him over to another of the many towers that sprouted from Snape Manor like mushrooms from the ground.

Harry Potter was petting Macavity, and the lynx seemed to like it. Severus put his hands on the stone battlements and looked out over the countryside, a slight breeze pulling his dark hair out of his face.

He sighed, feeling suddenly exhausted. What would the summer be? With Harry Potter here. With that boy—young man, now—and symbol of everything that angered him, with that boy ever present. Off-hand comment to Potter notwithstanding, he _would_ run into the brat now and again. It was a large house, but not _that_ large.

Severus's black eyes traced the horizon. The bleak landscape to the north, the moors, suited him. Treeless, barren, the wind howling mindlessly over the land. Even in summer, it never got truly warm out on the real moors. A man could lose himself out there. Days without any other human contact…

_He was sixteen. Poe wheeled overhead, occasionally letting out a faint caw that echoed down to him. Fenris trotted by his side, pink tongue lolling from huge jaws. Macavity was somewhere ahead, chasing down a vole or mouse no doubt, hidden from them by the slight roll and dip of the land._

_A lonely summer. Siobhan was in Russia, visiting one of her Durmstrang schoolmates. He owled her frequently, her responses back to him comforting, but it was not the same. Without her, he didn't have the heart to go into the forest to the south and west of the house, where as younger children they had spent hours upon hours weaving stories and adventures._

_No, when one wanted solitude, it was north that one headed._

_If he stopped in his long strides across the turf beneath his feet, stopped and turned around and looked back, he would still be able to see the point of the library tower, and maybe some of the other parts of the manor._

_He did not intend to stop, or turn around. Not for several days yet. He had all the things he'd need for camping on the moors in the small pouch attached to his belt. All the equipment was easy to carry once shrunk to an appropriate size, a minor magic._

_And for a few days free of the stone walls and his parents, he'd gladly cast much greater magics than that._

_Summer was just started. Still two-and-a-half months until he could go back to Hogwarts. Two-and-a-half months of waiting, longing, wishing for the entirely different stone walls of the school, for the comfortable chaos of the Slytherin dormitories, for the classrooms and books and schedule._

_He ignored the fact that whenever he was at school, the only things he longed for were the quiet peace of his bedroom at home, the freedom to spend his days as he pleased, the sanctity of the library tower, the companionship of his animal friends and his sister._

Not happy anywhere, boy. Don't know what you want, only that you want more of it.

_A wet nose snuffled into his hand. He absently scratched Fenris's large, blunt head, the roughness of the fur under his fingers comforting. The wolf made a low contented noise deep in his chest, and the boy felt his lips curling into a slight smile. Who needed humans, anyways?_

_The wolf let out the low contented growl again, then murmured under his hand, "Who's the human, Severus?"_

"What?"

Fenris butted his head into his master's hand again. "I said, who's the human?"

Severus Snape blinked and turned from the view of the moors, shaking himself from a long-ago memory. "Oh. Yes. The human.

"Fenris, this is Harry Potter. One of the Hogwarts students."

The huge gray wolf eyed the human boy curiously, cocking his head to one side. "Is it food?"

Harry Potter took an involuntary step back. Severus fought the grin that was creeping onto his face. _Bless_ Fenris and his sense of humour, anyway. 

He looked down at the wolf and said in the sternest tone he could manage, "No! No, you are not to eat him. He's a guest. Understand?"

Sometimes he thought Fenris really did have the devil in him. The wolf did a marvelous job of looking reluctant and saying sulkily, "I suppose… you're _sure_ he's not food?"

"Quite. Say hello to him. He's staying here all summer."

"Hello, prey," growled the wolf. Inwardly, Severus struggled to keep from bursting into laughter. Fenris would never attack a human unless it was clear that said human was an enemy—and he certainly didn't hunt and _eat_ humans—but, oh, he was so wonderful at being intimidating…

"Hi," Potter said a bit weakly, and Snape relented. 

"He's not going to attack you, Potter. In fact, Fenris is possibly the gentlest of the three. Ignore his posturing."

Fenris Ulf looked wounded, then gave a canine grin at the boy. "I'm very nice. Really. The only thing I bite is the orange doormat."

Macavity, still stretched out on the flagstones of the curtain wall, hissed lazily, then purred, "Try it, furball. I will neuter you before you blink."

Potter looked back and forth between the two animals and burst into helpless laughter. After a moment, he looked at Snape and said, "Are your pets always like this?"

Severus felt a small smile twist his lips. "I'm afraid so. But they don't like being called pets. Especially Macavity. Bloody feline independence, and all."

Fenris moved forward and let Potter pet him. Severus let out a small sigh and turned back to the view of the moors.

He didn't _want_ Potter staying here. The house was _his_—his refuge, his haven, his _home_. Dammit. Another owl to Dumbledore, perhaps?

No. No, he knew the answer. Albus, cunning old bastard that he was, was probably chuckling and rubbing his hands together in glee, thinking it was marvelous that Severus Snape and Harry Potter had to spend the summer in each other's company.

All right, maybe not. But still…

_Not so bad. I'll just hide in the bloody workshop all summer, shall I? Let the bastard Potter drive me into hiding._

_Gods, I'm being pathetic. And snide. And childish. And…_

_What's the Muggle saying? Par for the course?_

"Are you _quite_ through fondling the wolf?" said a sarcastic voice, and Harry, startled, let go of Fenris's head and looked up at Snape. The professor was standing there, arms crossed, irritation plain on his face.

"Uh, sure. Sorry," Harry muttered. _I thought we were being nice now..? Nope, this is Snape. Take nothing for granted._

"Good. There's a few other residents of the castle you should meet, but _they_ generally don't come when they're called, and they're also not going to hurt you. They care very little for the affairs of the living."

"Uh… the—living?" Harry said hesitantly.

"Yes. They're dead. Ghosts, like at Hogwarts."

"Oh." _Ding ding ding. _Harry's mind connected the silvery blotches on the map to what Snape was saying and found a match. Well, that was slightly better than running into a _live_ half-Snape, half-Malfoy, he supposed.

"There's three of them. If you run into them at any point, you have my pity," Snape drawled, then looked thoughtful. "Well, actually, Casimir is fairly decent to talk to—if you steer clear of the subject of politics. Amelia and Lucien are lost causes."

Harry wondered, briefly, what it must have been like to grow up in a house with three resident ghosts, until you got to the point where you were on first name terms with them. And, suddenly, he felt a stab of _pity_ for his Potions Master—certainly the last emotion he would have ever expected to feel for the man.

But what must it have been like, indeed, growing up in this huge castle of a house? Apparently, he'd had a sister, who would have been some company, but other than that… What had childhood been like, that the grown man got along better with animals and a stuffy not-house-elf than with ordinary people?

_I don't send owls that often_, Snape had said in the Owlery. No, Harry didn't suppose he did. Or have many visitors. Or…

His musings were interrupted by Snape pushing himself away from the stone battlements and saying curtly, "I trust that you can find your way back to your room, Potter?"

"Er, yeah--" Harry began.

"Good. Then if you'll excuse me, I have a potion I was working on before you interrupted me," said his professor, then brushed past him and headed back towards the library tower. The large wolf nodded once to Harry, then loped after his master.

Harry watched Snape go, Fenris at his heels, until they both disappeared inside the tower. He looked down at Macavity, but the lynx, after her few words to the canine, seemed to revert back to ignoring everything and everyone.

Harry sighed and walked to the edge of the curtain wall, looking down into the courtyard. The breeze had picked up into a stiff wind, and a few clouds had moved through the pale blue sky to cover the sun. It was suddenly cool. He shivered and headed towards the owlery, thinking of the messages he needed to write to his friends.


	5. Four: Even Snape Gives Warnings Worth Li...

A Season for Healing

By Dien

Summary and disclaimer in part one.

Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is PG.

Notes: To EVERYBODY who reviews-- thank you so much. I am flattered by the continual kind comments I get about this fic. I'm just glad you're all enjoying it.

Janai: Don't worry. We will definitely see traumatized Harry before the end of everything.

Kday2: Sev's a member of _homo sapiens_. Fenris, I suppose, just thinks of him as more 'packmate' than 'human.' :)

Emily: Never heard of Hamilton, sorry. 'Siobhan' is an Irish name though.

De Severa, I didn't borrow Sev's work clothes from anywhere that I know of. Just convenience for our Potions Master. And I haven't forgotten about Valence (indeed, the bastard won't LET me) but he's graciously agreed to let me work on this for a while first. He and Sev are off testing explosive potions on hapless Gryffindor first years, and don't want to be disturbed.

Sage: Interesting idea about a Lupin/Harry wolf bond thing. I hadn't planned on incorporating it, but who knows...? :)

Delfeus: I'm glad you like it. Would you mind telling me where, exactly, on the SnapexHarryML you learned about this? I'm just curious. 

Morghaine: Thanks for your very kind words and encouragement. I, too, have read many of those fics... it's kind of why I wrote this. An attempt to provide a decent version of that plot.__

Continual thanks to lovely beta Nyarth. Everyone: GO READ HER STUFF! She's in my favorite Authors. Go! Go! *but finish this first*

What else? The part about Sev's problem with heights WILL be elaborated on, trust me. Part of my eventual discourse on exactly _why_ Severus hated James and S.G.B. (Sirius Goddamn Black, I'm stealing it, MHC) so much. Besides all the obvious reasons, I mean.

Amelia rambled, people. Not me. I couldn't get her to shut up.

And I think Riley's Esmé probably had a great deal, subconsciously, to do with the animals.

**Chapter Four. **_In which mail is sent off, Severus sulks, and we meet more new people._

_June 28_

_Ron--_

_Dursleys kept me from getting my mail; that's why I never wrote back to you. Sorry._

_Anyways-- I'm out of there, now... and you'll never guess where I am instead. Let's just say it is _not_ where I intended to be spending my summer. But so far it's actually okay. No, I'm not giving you any more clues, at least not until you try and guess._

_Tell me _everything_ that's happening at the Burrow; feels like years rather than weeks since I saw anyone._

_Say hi to Ginny, the twins and everyone else for me. _

_                                                                                          --Harry_

_P.S. Send Hedwig back with this, will you?_

_June 28_

_Hermione--_

_The Dursleys kept me from getting my mail; that's why I never wrote or anything._

_But, someone showed up and got me out of _there._ And you will _not_ guess who, not in a thousand years. I'm at this person's house now. I'm making Ron try and figure it out too before I tell, so let's see if you get it first._

_Write and tell me how your summer's going!_

_                                                                                          --Harry_

_June 28_

_Sirius--_

_The Muggles kept me from getting my mail, and now I'm having to explain this to everyone. Quite tiresome._

_Anyways, I'm not at the Dursleys right now. I was, er, rescued. The Headmaster knows where I am._

_Tell me where you are! Last we talked, you were in Romania, right? Where are you now? How's Remus, or have you seen him at all? Write soon and talk to me._

_Your godson_

_                                                                                          --Harry_

Harry leaned back and chewed on his lower lip. The letters sounded simplistic and falsely bright, even to him, but he supposed it didn't really matter. And then there was the matter of what was he supposed to tell Sirius. He really, _really_ doubted his godfather would be sanguine about his being at Severus Snape's for the summer. A mental image of Sirius showing up on Snape's doorstep filled his mind. The ensuing conflict would no doubt be interesting... to watch. From a distance. From a very _great_ distance, with shielding spells around you.

All he could do was hope Sirius didn't figure it out, he supposed. He sighed and sealed the three nearly identical letters, then put on one of the handling gloves and carefully approached the birds he had been told to use.

Thankfully, that went off without a hitch, and after making sure things were just as they were before he had entered the owlery, Harry left the room. He was resolved that he was going to give Snape no reason whatsoever to snark at him. If that meant obsessively cleaning up behind him, so be it.

Out on the curtain wall that separated the courtyard from the outside world, Harry dug out the map once more so he could find his way back to his room. Macavity, the lynx, was already gone from her place on the flagstones, and the map revealed she was over in one of the other towers. Harry felt a grin twitching his lips again.

It had been something to see the grim Potions Master, with a reluctant smile on those thin lips, bending over and scratching the cat's head like any other normal human being might do. The only way the scene could have gone more counter to what Harry expected of Professor Snape was if Snape had started speaking baby talk to the cat.

Now, _that_ was a disturbing image.

The map revealed another stairway in the tower he had just left that would take him back down to the ground floor. With slight relief, as he wasn't sure he wanted to go back in the library tower with Snape there, he once more entered the tower owlery, seeing the trap door he hadn't noticed the first time. It opened easily, and Harry descended back into the lower levels of the castle.

Severus swore as he re-entered his workshop to find one of the cauldrons boiling over. He shoved his hands back into the gloves and grabbed the hissing pot, moving it from the open flame to a less perilous position. The dark green liquid slowly subsided to a less violent state, and he sighed regretfully. It was obvious the potion was ruined.

His own fault, for getting distracted and taking longer than he should have in the owlery. Which, of course, wouldn't have happened if he hadn't had to take Potter up there. So that made it the boy's fault rather than his.

He devoutly hoped the little brat got lost on his way around the castle. It would only be justice.

Well, 'little' brat was no longer quite adequate, he thought to himself as he cleaned out the ruined potion and absently pulled the bell that would summon Wiggin or one of the other house elves. The boy had grown some, though he looked to have stopped now and would likely never be as tall as his father. Which was more than fine with him, since Harry Potter already looked far too much like the dearly departed Saint James for his peace of mind.

"You rang, Severus?" Wiggin said from the doorway above his head, and Severus looked up the stone steps to see the elf standing at the top of them.

"There you are. Could you please fetch some mandrakes? I've run out, and I'd rather not stop and go and get some at the moment," Severus said, glancing back to one of the other cauldrons which was thankfully of a much more stable nature.

"Of course, sir," Wiggin murmured, disappearing without fuss on his errand. Thank God for Wiggin.

Snape sat down on one of the stools in his workshop and slumped over the high counter, closing his eyes wearily. He had a fierce headache, and brought his hands up to massage his temples. His organized and disciplined mind automatically started to catalogue the reasons for the headache. 

Number one: Harry. Potter. Enough said. Simply breathing the same air as that nuisance was enough to inspire disease, pain, and sickness.

Number two: Heights. Alright, admittedly a minor piddling reason, since he had gotten to the point where he could walk the reassuringly solid battlements of the house without any trouble-- normally. But with his composure already disturbed by Bastard Potter, the view from so high up had been more disconcerting than he'd care to admit.

Number three: Ruined potion. Nothing, but nothing, was as annoying as wasted work. He growled under his breath, rolled his neck once or twice to get the kinks out, and straightened back up.

Thankfully it was nothing difficult. A simple Pepper-Up Potion, that he had been running low on. He could make it in his sleep. Hands running on automatic, he picked up the emptied cauldron and began chopping, mixing and adding again.

Mentally, he was absorbed by the other potions he had going. Two other cauldrons burped and hissed occasionally, each containing mixtures considerably more complex than the Pepper-Up. But both of them were at a stage where all they had to do was simmer. He could happily neglect them for hours.

He could hear Fenris moving around up in the library, the click of the canine claws on the flagstones echoing down through the trapdoor. While the animals had what amounted to free run of the house, Severus had put his foot down at the workroom. It was distinctly off-limits, and the last time Macavity had tested his resolution in the matter, she had wound up hairless for a week. The other two knew better than to try it.

Above his head, Fenris stopped moving and called down the stairwell, "Severus, exactly how busy are you?"

That was another thing the animals had down (well, excepting the thrice-cursed cat) that most humans had yet to grasp. Fenris acknowledged he was working, and was asking, politely, if he was too involved in what he was doing to hold a conversation.

Severus stripped off the gloves and goggles again and headed up the stone steps to the library proper.

"What's on your mind, Fen?" he said softly, plopping into one of the armchairs and letting himself relax. The wolf trotted over and curled up at his feet, with the comfortable familiarity the two had developed over many years of friendship. For a blessed moment he was able to completely and totally forget the fact that Harry Potter was anywhere within a hundred miles.

He reached down and scratched the wolf behind the ears, a faint smile on his face as the furry beast made a low noise of contentment. "Or do you just want to be spoiled and petted?"

Fenris didn't answer, his ears flattening to his sleek head in pleasure. He made a low rumbling noise in his throat and settled down further around his master and friend's feet.

Severus Snape sighed and leaned back in the chair himself, closing his eyes. The silence was extremely comfortable. Another thing the menagerie understood, unlike the irritating bipeds they shared the world with, was the pleasure of shutting up once in a while and just _being_. Humans talk too much, Fenris had told him once. He had heartily agreed.

Severus felt built-up tension drain out of him. Trust the wolf to know when he needed a little break from work. Indeed, from the school year in general-- he had to admit this was the first intensive relaxing (oxymoron, he snarled to himself) he'd done since coming home from Hogwarts for the summer.

After a few minutes of the silence, the wolf said in a low growl, tentatively, "The human boy seems nice."

"I'm sure he is," Severus said wearily.

"It's not your choice he's here."

"No. No, it's not."

"Why, then?"

Snape sighed a little. Things were simpler to a wolf's mind.

"He... was with people he shouldn't have been with. They were hurting him. I don't like him, but he is my student at the school. I couldn't leave him with them.

"And there is nowhere else for him to go."

"Mm." The wolf settled in again.

The peace of the library was broken by the door opening. Wiggin peeked in. "The mandrakes, sir..."

Sigh. Severus got to his feet, disturbing the protesting wolf. "Thank you, Wiggin."

The house-creature handed him the plants, staring at him sternly. He sighed again, getting the feeling he'd be doing that a lot before the summer was over. "What have I done now?"

"It's nearly lunchtime, Severus. What shall I get you for--"

"Not hungry."

Wiggin's stare became a disapproving glare. He flinched. "Alright. A sandwich, please," he said, aware of how testy his voice was.

"_And_ a salad. And milk. And--"

"Oh, fine. Whatever," Snape said, rolling his eyes. Damn Wiggin's mother-hen instincts.

"Very good, sir," Wiggin said calmly, reverting to 'servant' rather than 'bossy-stand-in-for-your-grandmother' form. He turned and left the library. Severus rolled his eyes again and took the mandrakes downstairs, for use in the Pepper-Up.

Harry glared down at the map, trying to figure out where he had missed his turn. No, that was solid wall. He couldn't have made a misstep there. Yet he could have _sworn_ there had been a hallway there somewhere.

Maybe parts of the house moved around, like the stairs at Hogwarts. Wonderful, even more confusing. He looked to see if there was a house-elf anywhere he could ask.

None of the blue dots hovered anywhere near him. But ahead, the corridor he was in led into a room, and a silver dot flickered transparently within. He warily examined the name: Amelia Snape.

Well, he supposed he'd have to meet them _sometime._

He just hoped they were ghosts like Nearly Headless Nick rather than, say, the Bloody Baron.

Rolling the map up and stuffing it in his back jeans pocket, Harry lifted his chin and headed towards the door the map had depicted. A grim-faced man in black medieval robes nodded approvingly at him, and he smiled weakly back at the painting.

There were quite a few paintings and tapestries scattered around the castle walls. Some of them were even friendly, their subjects waving or smiling at him, but it was nothing like at Hogwarts, where the vast majority of pictures were sociable or even slightly silly. None of the figures here had been in any way ridiculous.

One of the paintings he had passed showed a tall man, dressed in what he recognized only from History class as battle robes, in combat with a dragon that towered over him. The man was mounted on a black horse, that danced and pawed the ground furiously, a maniacal glint in its rolling eye. 

The man was dark-haired and pale-skinned, dark eyes flashing from under heavy brows, a neatly trimmed beard giving him a vaguely regal appearance. The maniacal glint in _his_ eyes was easily a match for the horse's. One hand clutched a long spear; the other gripped a wand and the reins simultaneously.

As Harry had watched, fascinated, the wizard and his steed had whirled and plunged around the large green dragon, skirting the long tongues of flame the beast had shot out. The man had cast spell after spell, weakening the dragon, until finally he had plunged the long wicked line of the lance into the dragon's heart.

Harry wondered if the painting was of Snape's aforementioned great-great-grandfather. If so, the man had to have been mad. Utterly barmy.

(And if insanity was hereditary, it explained an awful lot.)

Even more interesting, in a way, than the painting of the dragon slaying were some of the other paintings that he saw occasionally on the walls. They were Muggle paintings-- non-moving, just the thick paint and canvas. That was interesting, too, and he wondered some more. He'd always thought Snape came from one of the old pureblood families, and all he'd learned since just last night confirmed it... and, thus, it was very odd to find Muggle works of art here and there.

The door was before him now. Harry wondered if he ought to knock, then decided against it. He put his hand out onto the dark metal of the doorknob, carved in the likeness of a fish, and entered.

It was a sitting room, with several high-backed chairs upholstered in some dark red material arranged around a table of some dark wood. They were somewhere in the bowels of the building, so there were no windows, but a large, photo-realistic tapestry took up most of one wall with a 'view' of an alpine lake at nighttime, with moonlight and starlight playing on the waters.

One of the chairs was pulled a bit away from the others, and in it sat a disconsolate maiden. One slim hand rested in her lap, holding a silvery piece of fabric that looked to be a handkerchief. Her elegant neck was bared, the other hand toying with a intricate necklace at the base of her throat. The maiden's dark and seemly head was raised and tilted slightly to one side, as her doe-like, limpet eyes gazed off into the middle distance. Her whole expression and demeanor was one of such profound dignity, tragedy, grief and melancholy that one could almost ignore the fact that she was silvery and pretty much transparent.

Amelia Snape, if indeed she was, did not seem to have noticed him. Harry hesitantly cleared his throat. "Er, ah, hello."

She turned her head towards him, the ringlets in her dark hair bobbing with the motion. The sorrowful dark eyes fixed upon him, and exquisite and shapely lips parted slightly to speak.

"Lo, what hero this? What young gallant, who intrudes upon my woesome solitude?"

"Um. I'm Harry Potter, and I, ah, well, sorry for intruding," Harry said awkwardly. He hadn't exactly been prepared for this.

"Such courtesy, young man, such courtesy," she murmured softly, in dulcet tones that carried great sadness. "Ah me! That Fate were as mindful of manners, and perhaps the tragedies of cruel and ling'ring Destiny would not have been acted so! Ah, were it so, one wishes it heartily..."

Harry stood uncomfortably as she trailed off into silence, her gaze returning to the tapestry, her hand still toying with her necklace. He felt it would be rather boorish to ask what the matter was, but felt it would be equally insensitive not to at least express some concern.

"Uh, well, what's the prob-- I mean, what, uh, what troubles your soul, lady?" he said, trying to find some delicate way to phrase it and conscious that he sounded like a complete idiot.

The limpet eyes seemed to fill with silvery tears as she returned her gaze to him. "Ah, in truth a noble soul! Look, world, at this heart of chivalry, that stands before disconsolate me and bids me tell my troubles! Forsooth, a hero, and aye, one with a romantic heart, who would no doubt aid me were't in his power!

"Yet, brave gallant, there is little you can do to assuage my woe. Still, how noble of you to ask...! And you would know of my tale, my trials, my tragedy? Then here shall it all be revealed, noble one; I am Amelia Cineraria Asclepia Snape. There. You have no doubt heard the sad story thereof; perhaps some bard or poet did sing of it...?"

Harry, noble and gallant that he was, was forced to admit that, no, he had heard no such tale. At this, the tears in the doe-like eyes indeed spilled over.

"What, then? Has no future age remembered our tragedy? Alas, alas. That we are forgotten... Yet, _sic eunt fata hominum_. Thus go the fates of man-- aye, and even great love... but still, perhaps, some soul, who dreams of dramas of high grief and deep love, yet holds true to our memory. Perhaps, perhaps. Oh, Fate! Capricious Fates, capricious sisters..."

Here she trailed off into mute weeping, as Harry stood by feeling an utter heel. After a moment or two of this, she lifted her dark-tressed head and dabbed at her cheeks with the handkerchief. 

"Listen then, Harry Potter, and I shall tell you my tale. It is a story of high grief and deep love, of nobility, of loss, of infinite tragedy, of life and death and lost love, alas. Alas. Please, seat yourself..."

Harry hesitantly took one of the chairs, wondering just what he was getting himself into and recollecting, too late, Snape's statement of pity for any who ran into the ghosts. Once in a while, it occurred to him, Snape gave a warning that was worth listening to.

"Four centuries gone, there was born a daughter of the Snape family, destined by the stars of her birth for a tragic love," Amelia began, with an ease that suggested she had told the story quite a few times indeed. "Her name was Amelia Cineraria Asclepia Snape, and I am she.

"Like all other witches and wizards of the Snape family that possessed the craft in great enough measure, I in due course attended the great institution of Hogwarts--"

"Really? Me too," Harry interjected sympathetically. For one second, the air of mourning was briefly tainted by something a little like irritation, then Amelia's face cleared and she said in her melodious tones, "Lovely, my young gallant. 

"I attended Hogwarts, and, also like my illustrious forebears, was welcomed into the great House of Salazar Slytherin himself. Aye, the wise serpent was our standard, and the emerald banner our rallying point!

"Yet, despite my wishes, my eyes strayed to other Houses, to other banners and standards. Would that I had not! Would that I had settled for contentment, if not love, in my own House, and never known the blinding heights of adoration and ecstasy, and thus never known the depths of despair! Would that I had plucked my own eyes from my head, and thus prevented my heart from being plucked from my bosom!

"But I did not. And so it was that I saw him first. A prince among men-- nay, a god among lesser mortals, he appeared to me.... As fair as the noonday son, radiating light and life and truth. All loved him and despaired, yet none moreso than I-- for he was of the House of _Gryffindor_-- time out of mind the enemies of Slytherin...

"Yet-- yet. Ah, but simply to see him, and all rivalries and anger melted like snow, in the light and heat of his presence! Even his name-- Lucien McGonagall. Lucien, light. A radiant prince.

"In the beginning, I did try and disguise this welling of emotion, to feign hatred for this knight, this noble one, this bearer of the red and gold... I strove to surpass him in the classroom, and in all other endeavors! This was no easy task-- for even laying aside the treacherous urgings of my own heart, my love was of brilliant mind, his manly beauty surpassed only by his keen intellect and expanse of knowledge. Still, I did thus strive.

"And not only in the halls of academia, but also on the sporting field did we meet in battle. For in the jousts of Quidditch did we both compete--"

"You played Quidditch? Me too," Harry murmured. Amelia forced a little smile and continued. "That's nice, dear. As I was _saying--_

"Our rivalry on the Quidditch pitch was legend at school. My knight, my Lucien, didst play in the position of Chaser, for, as his mind and grace surpassed all others, so did his agility and swiftness. And I-- I flew as Keeper, as determined to keep my foes from scoring as I was to keep my heart from his grasp.

"Yet all in vain. By the end of our seventh year, neither Lucien nor myself could deny our benighted feelings any longer. We had been made for each other, you see-- him light and I dark, him Gryffindor and I Slytherin, him the radiant sun and I the lustrous moon, two parts of a perfect whole, the question and the answer... the two leaders of our generation. He and I were Head Boy and Girl, you know--

"Anyways. He confessed his undying love and affection to me the day before the Yule Ball.

"Ah, I did think my poor heart would shatter! I of course confessed also my love, my undying worship of him... and, the next night, we entered arm in arm to the Ball, to the surprise of the entire school.

"Thus began the happiest period of my life. For the rest of that year, we loved each other in such bliss as no mortal has yet known! Every glance, every letter, every kiss and touch is imprinted on my mind for a thousand years, and not even death has had the power to part these memories from me..."

Harry glanced at his watch and shifted slightly in his chair. Well, he now knew who Lucien McGonagall was... but he rather thought he would punch the chap, if he was _anything_ like this. God among lesser mortals or _not_.

Amelia was still speaking. "... imagine my distress, my utter grief and desolation of spirit, when I did learn of my father and mother's plans. They had arranged marriage for me-- but not to the object of my heart's desires. No, they wished me to wed a man I detested, a man as far removed from my noble Lucien as a slug is from an eagle! I told them I did not love this churl, but they would have none of it, telling me that the survival and well-being of the family came first, before even the call of mine own heart.

"At the time of all this, the family was in dire straits, financially. They wished me to wed a Malfoy, by name Felix. And a dark-hearted and cruel man he was, too-- his only recommendation to my family being his good name and his wealth.

"I told them the truth of mine own heart, all of it-- how I not only did not love Felix Malfoy, but loved another, mine own Lucien... 

"My father, especially, was outraged. I had chosen one of the oldest families of Gryffindor as the target of my heart, and one of the poorest of the families at that. An alliance with McGonagall would bring no prestige to the family, nor even as much as one Knut.

"I laid out the qualities of my love that surpassed all value of silver or gold, of fame and politics. I told of his handsome appearance, his bright mind, his skill with broomstick and wand, and above all, of his shining character and truthful tongue. None made any difference, and all my efforts earned me only a postponement of my marriage, 'til the mid-winter.

"Ah, how bitter was my grief! Lucien and I made the most of the season we had left to us. We took long walks in the rose gardens, and went riding on the hills... we spent hours on our broomsticks, flying in desolate despair o'er the countryside. We said our goodbyes, and each wept bitter tears. But thus was the card that Fate had dealt, and I saw no course but to accept.

"But Lucien--! Ah, my Lucien, my knight, my prince! He was not one to take the thread that the three sisters weave meekly! No, a lion, my Gryffindor prince, and it was he that suggested we flee together. Somewhere, away from the long arms of the Snape and Malfoy family, away from our beloved native soil, we could live in peace.

"I agreed. I could not imagine life without Lucien, so dear had he become to me. It was worth anything, any risk, that we be together. 

"And yet... away from his presence, my resolve did weaken. We of Slytherin are taught that the family is all important, that we have a duty to our blood kith and kin... I felt the two sides of my being tearing me apart, two forces warring for my heart... the love of Snape, of my family, and of Lucien and all he stood for.

"I sent a secret message to my Lucien, telling him I could not go through with it. I would marry Felix after all. This was a week before mid-winter, and the marriage.

"For all the rest of the week, I was barraged by owl and all other form of communication. My knight wished to know why I had betrayed our pledged troth! I had no answer, and sent nothing back.

"The wedding came--and went. As it was a marriage of convenience, we did little more than exchange vows, before my new husband dashed off on affairs of business, with a promise to my father that he would return the next night to collect his bride. 

"Then, one last letter from him my love. It pleaded with me to reconsider, to change my mind. It said he waited for me, by the fountain, in the rose garden... all I had to do was slip out of the house, flee to meet him, and we could be off and away...

"I sat in my chambers, the whole day, and wept bitterly. I could not choose-- I could not choose! One course would betray my family and my vows-- the other would betray my heart, and my Lucien! The night that came was cold, and harsh; snow swept down and covered the estate. Yet it was nothing to the storm that raged in my divided soul.

"Hours came and went, and still I struggled with myself. Soon-- soon-- Felix would arrive, to take me away, to the loveless existence I already foresaw-- the hour, midnight, approached..."

Amelia's voice had lowered to a dramatic whisper. Harry felt himself listening in spite of himself.

"I realized I could choose neither path, without denying one side what they desired. In the end-- I took the only path allowed.

"I took poison.

"Aye, poison! A fitting and noble way for a serpent to die! A small vial, sweet upon the tongue, like honey and amaranth... and it was done.

"A languor spread over me... and I passed from this mortal coil," Amelia finished with a sigh.

Harry shifted in his seat and hid a yawn behind his hand. In his opinion, it had been a pretty stupid thing to. If _he'd_ been in her position, and this Lucien had been everything she said he was, he'd have gone down to the garden and screw Felix Malfoy, and family too. Still and all...

"So what happened to Lucien?"

She started a bit. "Ah yes... my poor Lucien...

"As I said, the night was harsh. He stood in the rose garden for hours, waiting, waiting, as the snow swept around him and as the crimson petals broke from their bases to land like drops of blood on the white snow...

"He waited, and waited. Hours drew by. Midnight came then, and one, and two... he knew in his bones that I would not be coming. Yet it was not until he heard the cries of grief from the house, on discovery of my body, that he knew for certain. And my Lucien, his noble heart broken in twain, laid down in the snow and died of grief."

Harry paused. "That's all?"

"Yes. Yes, that is the tale," she murmured sadly, wiping her ghostly tears again. Harry frowned, then said cautiously, "Well... I mean, isn't he a ghost now too? So, er, at least you're together now, right?"

His words brought on a fresh rush of tears and a cry of grief. "No! No, and that is the true tragedy of it all! For the long hours he waited, until his death, and for the indecision of my weak and womanish soul, we are doomed to never meet! Though we both walk these halls of stone, each pining for the other, him following ever after where I walk, sitting where I sit, standing where I stand, yet he is always too late.... I am always already in the next room. Sometimes, we catch the barest glimpse of one another, but it is always so fleeting... a torment rather than pleasure. If we wish to communicate at all, we must ask others to carry the messages for us..."

Harry considered. Well, that did admittedly suck. Being dead, and never getting to see your true love that you'd killed yourself over. 

Even is you _were_ really melodramatic about it and shouldn't have killed yourself over him to begin with.

Her eyes bright, Amelia looked up at him. "Is it not the most tragic tale you have ever heard, young man?"

Harry though it best not to answer, other than a non-committal noise in his throat, which she seemed to accept. "Perhaps... perhaps... if you should see my Lucien... can you carry him a message, for me?"

"Sure," said Harry with a sigh.

"Oh, courteous and gentle soul," she sighed. "Tell him, _The roses yet bloom, for all that we can no longer enjoy them._ Will you carry this message, young sir?"

"If I see him, I'll tell him," Harry said truthfully, adding to himself, _and I am going to use that map to make sure I never _do_ see him._

"Thank you... thank you..." she murmured in a breathy tone that reminded him of Sybil Trelawney. Harry murmured it was nothing, and seeing the opportunity  was as good as it was going to get, fled.


	6. Five: Cats, Rebounds, Big Houses, and Lu...

A Season for Healing

By Dien

Summary and disclaimer in part one.

Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is PG.

Notes: __

Continual thanks to lovely beta Nyarth. Everyone: GO READ HER STUFF! She's in my Favorite Authors. Go! Go! *but finish this first*

Dean Thomas gets the dubious honor of Harry's Former Love Interest, because he's one of my favorite minor characters. _I_ think he's cute. :p

Snape next chappie. I promise.

**Chapter Five. **_In which Harry and Macavity make friends, lunch is served, and er, other things probably happen also._

Harry miraculously made it to the bedroom that had been assigned him without any further complications or encounters. He shut the door behind him with a sigh and leaned back against it, closing his eyes. This was easily going to be officially the strangest summer he had ever had. Snape. Suicidal drama queen ghosts. Talking animals. House elves with delusions of grandeur-- okay, that last one wasn't fair. Wiggin, so far, was the sanest creature he'd met.

Harry opened his eyes with a sigh-- and did a double take. The ginger coloured lynx was lying on his bed.

"Um, hi," Harry said slowly, one part of him wondering if he was going to be doomed to start all conversations of the summer this way. The cat fixed him with green eyes but said nothing.

"Yeah. Right. Welcome to my room, make yourself at home," he muttered under his breath. He had always considered himself able to get along fairly well with animals, from Fang to Hedwig, but since making the acquaintance of Hermione's cat Crookshanks, he had removed 'felines' from the list of animals and put them into a category of their own. This was the category of creatures that liked to stare at him unnervingly. Coincidentally the group that included Snape and Voldemort, with the difference that cats were generally harmless, if you petted them.

He didn't think Snape or Voldemort would take kindly to being petted. _Miaow_.

Harry pushed himself away from the door, moving to one of the high-backed chairs that occupied his new room. With a sigh he plopped into it, then winced at the sudden contact between seat and rear end. Uncle Vernon's belt, two nights ago, and what fun _that_ had been. Aside from the lingering soreness there was the embarrassment; he was _sixteen_ (soon to be seventeen) for Merlin's sake, not a bloody five year old! Perhaps, he thought with a wry, resigned smile, Vernon Dursley had been trying to make up for not beating him enough as a small child.

There was something important about Uncle Vernon, he realized with a frown; something he should be thinking about. He chewed his lower lip and tried to think what it was.

Something he should be happy about... something pertaining to all the Dursleys... hmm...

Oh yes. Something along the lines of NOT HAVING TO SEE THEM FOR THE REST OF THE SUMMER.

Harry let out a giggle that did make him feel like a five year old as the reality of the situation set in. He was going to be here until school started, which was certainly bearable, considering the alternative was Privet Drive; and after that he had a whole school year away from them. Breifly, he frowned at the thought of the month or so that would remain between graduation and his eighteenth birthday. Hmm. Surely he'd be able to find _some_place to stay for that period of time... with Sirius or Remus, if either of them had settled down by then... or, who knew, maybe with Snape?

The thought was nowhere near as horrible as it would have been even yesterday. Because, all things considered, Snape currently ranked very high on his list of People Who I Am Happy With.

After all, Snape _had_ rescued him from the prospect of the rest of the summer with Them. And given him a place to stay-- a _nice_ place, at that. And been semi-half-way-sort-of-decent to talk to. And had been concerned about him.

_Still a semi-bastard, undeniably,_ he mused, _but I can deal with it. That's probably just habit. With what he just did for me by getting me out of Privet Drive, he can be a berk for the rest of summer and I don't care. At least he won't object to me doing my homework, or saying the word 'magic,' or half-starve me, or keep me from getting mail from Ron and Hermione and Sirius and (though I really doubt it) Dean, or knock me upside the head if he's in a bad mood..._

Snape would _curse_ him upside the head instead, he thought with another laugh. He realized he was being ridiculous. He also realized that as soon as there were a few days between him and the memories of the Dursleys, he'd be a lot less cheerful about Professor Snape. But at the moment, the realization that he was _free_ of Dudley, Petunia and Vernon was just about the loveliest thing, and he felt charitable to anything that moved, including greasy sarcastic professors that spend three-quarters of the year trying to make your life more difficult than it already is.

He felt charitable towards the puffy clouds moving across the sky. He felt charitable towards the house elves moving around the house. He felt charitable towards the cat currently sprawled across his bed as if she owned it.

"Macavity, did you know that life is beautiful?" he said to the feline with a smile. She ignored him, which he had expected. "That's all right. You're beautiful too."

The cat flicked her ears in a manner which suggested, _I may be beautiful, but you, human boy, are an idiot._

"No argument," he said with a grin, and got up from the chair. He walked over to where his beautiful broomstick leaned against the wall and picked it up happily. Ah. Like being reunited with an old friend... He felt like shoving open the beautiful French doors and taking off on it to do some crazy loop-the-loops around this beautiful house.

Hmm. Flying was probably something he should clear with Snape beforehand. In his current mood, he wanted to be the best possible guest, and not make that arrogant hook-nosed git regret The Rescue.

Harry settled for sitting down (gingerly) on the floor and polishing the beautiful broomstick, pleasant dreams flitting through his head of how he and his beautiful Quidditch team were absolutely going to crush Slytherin during the coming year. Beautiful.

There was a sharp rapping at the French doors, and Harry's head shot up from the broomstick. Owl. Not Hermione or Ron-- no way they could have gotten back to him so quickly-- but whoever it was, was probably beautiful. Harry got up with a smile and walked over to the balcony door, opening it to let in an beautiful owl carrying an envelope sealed with the beautiful Hogwarts crest and Gryffindor lion.

An hour later, Harry slammed shut his Transfiguration textbook with an angry sigh, scowling at the cat that had fallen asleep on the bed. It was amazing how an hour of study could bring you right back down to earth and sanity.

He grabbed the remarkably non-beautiful letter and re-read it.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_While I regret disturbing your holiday, there is the matter of your make-up work. As we agreed that you did not want to take sixth-year Transfiguration again next year, you said you'd be willing to complete assignments over the summer holiday. I have tried to contact you several times regarding this, and each time the owl has been returned to me with letter unopened. Perhaps this time we'll have better luck._

_Enclosed is the list of required reading from your text, and the essay work required on each chapter. You will complete each of these on a weekly basis and owl them to me._

_If you have any questions, kindly contact me._

_Yours sincerely,_

Minerva McGonagall

_Professor of Transfiguration_

_Head of Gryffindor House_

_Deputy Headmistress_

_P.S. I hope your summer is going well and look forward to start of next term, when we shall, I trust, thrash the Slytherin Quidditch team into the dirt. -Professor M._

          Sigh. Homework-- whatever Hermione might think-- was. Not. Beautiful.

          Harry was trying to steel himself to leap back into the text, under the assumption that it would be better if he just got it all out of the way, when a light knock at the door interrupted him.

          "Come in," he said, still staring at his book, and the door creaked open to reveal Wiggin.

          "Master Potter. I've brought you lunch--"

          "Oh, that sounds _great._ I'm starving," Harry gasped, launching himself towards the tray that he could see behind the elf. Wiggin looked momentarily intimidated but nevertheless acted with his usual dignity, setting out a delicious meal on the table Harry had been using to study.

          As he bit into his second roast beef sandwich, Harry realized Wiggin was staring at him oddly. He fought the impulse to ask why until after he'd swallowed his current mouthful.

          "Oh, it's nothing," said the creature with a relieved sigh. "I was just afraid when I came in that you'd say you weren't hungry. I hate it when he does that."

          "Who, Snape?"

          Wiggin looked pained. "Yes. How is the sandwich?"

          "Great. Delicious. Wonderful," he mumbled, washing down another bite with a swallow from the tall glass of milk. Again he realized he was being stared at, this time by the lynx on the bed. What?

          Oh. The milk.

          "Er, can I ask for some, um..."

          "Yes, Master Potter?"

          "A bowl or saucer of milk or something. For Macavity," Harry said, waving his sandwich towards the cat. Wiggin turned to follow his gesture, then did a double take.

          "Macavity! _What_ are you doing in a guest's bedroom! Oh, when I tell Master Snape..."

          The cat twitched an ear in response to the threat, and Harry hurried to say, "Oh, I don't mind her. She, uh, keeps me company."

          Wiggin hesitated. "Well... if you're _quite _sure..."

          "Yes. Quite," Harry said with a cheery smile.

          "Then I suppose I'll get her some milk," the house-creature said unhappily, and vanished out the door.

          Harry's green eyes sought out Macavity's, and Harry felt his lips twitching as they looked at each other. The cat was definitely laughing, if silently.

          The meal passed in silence, broken only by Wiggin returning with the saucer of milk, which he placed on the floor. Disapproval lingered on his face, but after asking Harry if there was anything else he needed, the elf quietly retreated.

          After the door had closed behind Wiggin, the lynx leapt gracefully down from the bed and lapped up the milk. Licking her whisker clean, she looked up at Harry and purred in a low throaty voice, "Thanks."

          Harry wondered if he should feel honoured the cat had spoken to him directly. "Oh, no problem. It's, uh, kind of fun to tweak him."

          "Yes. Yes, it is. I like you, Hari."

          He managed not to laugh at how she said his name, which sounded more like 'Harr-ee' than 'Harry.' He didn't think cats took correction well, however, and decided to let it stand.

          "Thanks. I like you too," he said with a little grin. The cat considered him. After a few moments, she said, "Er... I _would_, however, appreciate it if you didn't mention my being here to Severus. He would tell me to get out."

          "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me," Harry said solemnly. She purred softly and returned to her milk.

          _This summer might just be great after all, _he thought to himself.

          Harry spent the rest of the afternoon in a guided tour of the manor, with Macavity giving commentary. The cat led him through what felt like a mile of corridors, stairs, walkways and back passages, talking all the way. After several hours of this, Harry felt he could find his way to the pertinent places of the house with only cursory glances at the magic map.

          They went to the kitchens, where Nezzy the house-elf fussed over him and fed him. She was a much more normal elf than Wiggin, yet bossy and over-bearing in her own unique way. 

          They went to the entrance hall, where Harry amused himself by letting his voice echo around the huge room. 

          They went to the 'portrait hall,' where he looked on a long row of pictures of Snapes past and present. Harry was most interested in the recent ones. Snape strongly resembled his father, from the black hair and eyes to the height and thinness. His mother, on the other hand, was a short, curvy woman who looked to be of Italian or Greek ancestry. Though she was not conventionally attractive in her features-- he could see where Snape got the rather aquiline nose and the greasy hair-- she exuded a great _presence_ and was striking in her own way. 

She was definitely where Snape had gotten his stares _and_ smirk from. The small, forceful woman in the picture turned a dead good impression of Glare Number Ten, the Evil Evil Evil Look, accompanied by Wicked and Monstrous Smirk, on him. Harry felt himself wilting.

There was one portrait of the whole family. Harry examined it with interest, as Macavity explained that Severus had been nine in the picture, Siobhan six.

Severus-Snape-at-nine was a solemn little boy who stared unnervingly back at you, rarely looking away as the others did. The only time he looked elsewhere was when his sister, a dark-haired little naïf with mischief sparkling in her black eyes, started poking him in the ribs. Then, for a second, the boy was transformed-- his eyes gleamed with the same spark and he jostled her back, a little smile twisting one corner of his mouth in what was obviously the much less malicious forerunner of the Advanced Sneer. 

Harry had looked, entranced, at his aloof, cold, nasty Potions Master being a simple, normal human child, but the parents in the photo had soon intervened. Two stern glares bored down from above and quelled the little game. The siblings returned to their sober expressions, at least for a little while, before starting the whole thing over again.

There were few other pictures of either Severus or his sister in the hall-- Macavity explained neither of them had much patience for the tradition of the grand pictorial heritage, and had stopped portraits being made of them as soon as they had had a choice in the matter. Still, Harry told himself he'd come back to the gallery when he could, and take longer looks at the ones that were there.

They went to the courtyard, during which the Captain and Seeker for Gryffindor's Quidditch team again reflected what a great place to practice it would be.

They went to the tops of several of the towers, which afforded some great views of the surrounding countryside.

          They went to the gardens, where Harry examined roses and benches and fountains and statues while Macavity chased a mouse she had claimed to have seen. Harry sat down on one of the benches and thought-- about a number of things, but primarily Dean Thomas.

          _Dean would love this place_, he mused with a wry smile, considering what his classmate and fellow Gryffindor would be doing here. Probably drawing-- sketching the fantastic gardens that were like something out of a gothic fairy tale. A soft sigh escaped his lips as he thought of Dean-- white teeth flashing in that smile; the enthusiasm that animated his long limbs and deep brown eyes whenever he started talking about either football or art; the dark, strong hands skimming agilely and skilfully over paper. Or pale skin, in beautiful contrast.

          For the twelfth time, he wondered if they'd been doing the right thing in breaking it off before the summer. But they'd both acknowledged it wasn't anything like true love; just two young, reasonably attractive men who had happened to find that one of the things they had in common was a crush on each other, and spent a great deal of sixth year snogging when they got the chance. And doing a bit more than snogging at times, he recollected with a faint blush in his cheeks.

          But Harry had known it wasn't permanent. They were too different in some of the important things; Dean had this amazing ability to be 'in love' with four different people simultaneously, and mean it as sincerely with each of them; Harry knew that ultimately he wanted someone he could settle down with for a long time, whether it was a boy or girl. The (admittedly awkward) romance with Cho in the fifth year had taught him that he wasn't gay, but equally interested in both genders.

          He rolled his eyes as he remembered breaking the news to both Hermione and Ron. Hermione had looked up from an essay she was writing for class, arched an eyebrow, and said after a pause, "Well. I was wondering how long it would take you to realize."

          Ron had been-- there was no other word for it-- _squicked._ For at least a month. He had blushed furiously whenever Harry had looked at him, ducked to avoid his gaze, and it hadn't been until Harry had finally cornered him and reassured him that he had no intention of hitting on _him_ that things had returned to something like normal.

          But it had been fun being, more or less, 'with' Dean. The other boy was by turns thoughtful and witty, charming and withdrawn. And had that killer smile. If Dean hadn't told him before summer started that he was the world's worst correspondent and there was no point in owling, he would have included the boy in the morning's mailing list.

          At least they were still friends. That was a _very_ nice change from the dramatic break-up with Cho, which had involved tears and resentment on both sides. He could do without girlfriends on the rebound from dead boyfriends, no matter how smart, skilled or pretty said girlfriends were.

          He was pulled out of his reverie by the sudden realization that he was getting cold. Not surprising, considering the sky was darkening and his wristwatch read after eight o'clock. He shivered and started back inside, the cat stalking mutely by his side.

          Supper was served in his room, another affair that put anything except Hogwarts feasts to shame. He couldn't help a laugh at the thought of going back to school fatter than before, which would certainly be a first.

          After eating, he flopped down on his bed and studied the ceiling, the cat curled up by his feet. Wiggin whisked dishes and trays away with a minimum of fuss, the slight clattering noises filling his brain comfortably. So much easier to think about that than anything else.

          But all too soon, the elf was gone, and the silence of the room began a heavy oppression. Harry squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then sat up briskly. Macavity made a slight protesting noise, but didn't stir from her position.

          He got up from the bed and walked over to the armoire, then flung it open. If he was going to be here for the entire summer, the least he was going to do was make himself comfortable. He dragged his trunk over to the wardrobe and moved his clothes and belongings into the piece of furniture.

          A good hour passed in silence as he worked, until he finally had things as he wanted them. Harry gave a bone-breaking yawn. The exploration of the house had made him dead tired.

          A shower then, and after that, bed. Tomorrow was, as Molly Weasley was fond of saying, another day.

          More sensual delight as he took advantage of the lovely bathroom. As he soaped and scrubbed, Harry wondered just why Professor Snape taught at Hogwarts. He obviously didn't need the money-- hell, the git had a bloody _castle_ to live in, and that sort of thing came with Galleons enough to roll in.

          And the other option-- teaching for the sheer joy of the profession-- was something Harry highly doubted the truth of. As far as he could tell, the man hated children. (Though honesty compelled him to admit that as they had moved into the more advanced potions making of sixth year, Snape had become less of a bastard and more of an instructor. Hermione had seemed to be bloody _enjoying_ the class, and Harry himself confessed-- secretly, within the privacy of his own head-- that the potions they worked on _were_ interesting.)

          Harry dried off with one of the thick dark green towels, then wrapped and tied it around his waist. His reflection in the mirror caught his eye and he grinned, idly appraising what he saw.

          He had been getting a tan, before summer started and he had been relegated to the cupboard; the lake at Hogwarts offered a great swimming place when the weather was warm enough for it. He had surprised himself by developing a rather nice shade of brown (unlike Ron, who had burned like a lobster). His Quidditch practice had finally given him something approaching a Physique, and he found himself flexing a bit in the mirror, before blushing furiously at his own vanity.

          But the toned muscles of Quidditch practice were a bit... marred. He didn't let himself look too long at the fading, but still livid, areas here and there on his sides and limbs. Uncle Vernon really didn't know his own strength, after all. And he had mouthed off right after getting home for the summer; what had he expected?

          Harry suddenly found himself unable to look at his reflection any longer. He tore his gaze from the mirror, grabbed another towel to dry his hair with, and headed back into the bedroom.

          He yanked open the newly full armoire and grabbed a pair of shorts to sleep in. All he wanted to do was go to bed. Tomorrow, he could sleep in as late as he wanted (glorious!) and once he got up, get some studying done, then maybe explore the house some more, perhaps ask permission to fly his broomstick in the courtyard...

          Anything to keep busy, as he had managed to do today. To keep from thinking about things better left alone.

          He had pulled on the red and gold Chudley Cannons boxers (Christmas gift from Ron) and turned back to bed before remembering he wasn't alone in the room. The lynx had one green eye cracked and was looking at him solemnly. Harry felt the hated blush rise to his cheeks again (_oh for the love of Merlin; this was an ANIMAL he was embarrassed in front of...) _and managed a feeble, "Uh..."

          Macavity rolled her eyes and settled back down. Harry sighed in relief. He really didn't think he could take some comment about his attractiveness or lack thereof from Snape's pet cat.

          Harry returned the towels to the bathroom after drying his hair. The mere thought of bed was inviting, and he headed for the soft warmth of mattress and covers.

          "Who gave you the marks?" the cat asked in a nonchalant tone, her eyes still closed. Harry stopped and swallowed. Why had he been able to talk about to Snape, last night, and yet couldn't answer the cat without a sudden thickness in his mouth? 

          "I... some people. My uncle," he muttered, conscious that his cheeks were burning and feeling suddenly ashamed. But the lynx only nodded sagely, as if it confirmed something she had been thinking. He breathed again and took more steps towards bed.

          "Severus had marks as a boy," she purred quietly. "Is it a ritual for childhood?"

          Harry froze again. "What?" he finally managed, looking at the cat.

          "I asked whether this is a tradition, a passage rite. For the humans to hurt their young."

          "N-no. It's... not. I... Sev-- Snape, uh, had 'marks'?"

          The cat nodded again, her green eyes strange and feral in the light of the room. "His father. When he was young. Younger than you, I think, but Severus was... also older than you. He aged as _we_ do: in spirit, not in body."

          Harry tried to wrap his mind around Macavity-talk and managed to translate parts of it. "Snape's dad beat him?"

          "'Beat.' That is the word for the hitting? So it _is_ a ritual?"

          "No. It's--"

          "You have a special word for it."

          "It's not... it's complicated."

          "You humans tend to be."

          Harry bit his lip and frowned. Argument with a feline was not something he felt up to right now. "If it is a ritual, it's not... a good one," he said weakly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The lynx turned and rested her warm, solid head in his lap, the presence oddly reassuring. He automatically scratched behind her ears. She purred.

          "You _are_ a little like Severus. He would pet me too, after a beat."

          "Beating," he corrected absently. His thoughts flew to two separate images of Severus Snape-- the bastard he faced at school, the domineering, arrogant, intimidating Potions Master... it was impossible to think of anyone daring to lay a hand on him. They'd get hacked off at the wrist. 

          But also the solemn nine year-old boy, staring at him with black empty eyes from a portrait frame, the shadow of his father behind and above.... Harry shivered. The realization that someone he'd always despised until only twenty-four hours ago was a real human being, with pain and hurt and, dammit, maybe something in common with him, was not something he felt comfortable with. 

          Harry turned off the lights, wishing he could turn off thoughts the same way, and curled up under the covers, the cat a reassuring, heavy warmth at his feet. In the dark, he buried his face in the soft pillows and thought fiercely about Quidditch strategy until sleep finally came. He hoped he was tired enough that dreams would not be an issue.

          His hopes were in vain. Harry's eyes flickered open as he clamped his teeth over a shout, one hand clapping at his forehead.

          _The standard Volde-crap,_ he thought angrily to himself. Figured the bastard would interrupt the first really sound sleep he'd had since leaving Hogwarts, unless one counted last night and the exhausted unconsciousness that had followed.

          He sat up wearily. A fumble for his glasses and wristwatch revealed it was after one. Damn.

          The warmth at his feet was gone, and he wondered idly if Macavity had just gotten bored in the nature of all cats, or whether he had kicked, tossed, and turned her out of bed.

          He flopped back onto the pillow with a sigh and tried to forget whatever the dream had been about. Fragments still flitted across his brain-- a woman screaming, someone laughing low and maliciously, a voice saying 'crucio'... He shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut. Dragged his palms over his face, as if trying to scrub away the images. They remained, and he opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling.

          Since a little over two years ago, when Voldemort had conclusively returned to life at the Tournament, things were not the same. _Well of course not, how could they be?_ he mentally mocked himself. Fudge had been forced to admit, finally, the very real war being fought, and wizarddom returned to a state it had thought left behind sixteen years ago.

          Life went on, of course-- but Aurors patrolled the streets of Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. Two were on duty at all times at the Hogwarts gates (which Harry privately thought was rather stupid, as if Albus Dumbledore and staff's potent charms weren't enough to keep out the forces of Dark, what good would two wizards do?). There were no more Hogsmeade weekends. Remus Lupin once more taught Defense Against the Dark Arts-- now synonymous with How To Fight Curses and Use Spells in Combat Situations. Harry himself got extensive private tutoring in this area, and was fine with that-- up to a point.

          The point was... they all expected him to save the world. Didn't they? he thought bitterly. That was why he was given the extra lessons, taught things that were most definitely not on the curriculum, taught things about Voldemort's rise to power. Because they hoped that he would again duel with the Dark Lord and somehow, yet again, manage to beat him. Or at least set him back for another year.

          His life stretched ahead of him, years of frantic tutoring to make him ready for the inevitable end-of-the-year battle, the build-up, the confrontation, the madness and terror as he fought for his very life-- let alone the lives of everyone he held dear-- and with a combination of some skill, his reflexes, magical help from Dumbledore and others, and a great deal of blind luck, somehow managed to blunder through to another victory. Another postponement of the day when he knew they would have to settle things once and for all.

          _I'm sixteen._ Sixteen!_ They expect the world from me. Never mind I can't even pass my Transfiguration final or stand up to my Muggle uncle; they want me to lead some sort of damn army to destroy Lord Voldemort. They don't have a battle plan, any idea of how to attack him; that much is obvious. The wizarding world just looks at me and expects me to pull off the next miracle._

_          It'd be funny if I wasn't at the centre of the whole thing._

          Harry groaned and buried his face in his pillow, and uttered the mental cry of reluctant heroes since the dawn of time. _Why me? I didn't ask for this._

          And he worried. Worried for himself, yes, but also his friends, who were targets just by association with him. He had awkwardly tried to bring up the subject to Dumbledore before the school year had ended, and the Headmaster had looked at him over the glasses with a funny expression and said, seriously, "They are not without protection, Harry. I cannot promise you anything, but they are not without what protection we can give them."

          He had had to be content with that. And try to ignore the fact that he saw the solemn side of the Headmaster much more than he would have liked. He missed the faintly dotty, nearly always cheerful Dumbledore of the earlier years.

          Harry Potter squeezed his eyes shut and tried to will himself to sleep. It didn't work. Thoughts and worst-case scenarios seemed to plague him no matter what he tried, even the old stand-by of counting Snitches.

          He got out of bed, shivering as his bare feet hit the cold stone between rugs, and the cold air hit his mostly bare skin. He walked over to the French windows and pulled the curtains aside.

          The night outside was clear and cold-looking; he had no desire to open the doors and see whether that was true. It was already cool enough inside without that. He rubbed his hands over his upper arms and thought about climbing back into bed.

          Ron's words to Hermione, in their first year, came back to taunt him. _Are you a witch, or aren't you?_ He smiled. "No, Ron, I'm not a witch, but you have a point..." He found his wand, also lying on the nightstand, and cast the heating charm they had learned in fifth year. The room was instantly cosy and he relaxed into the comfortable warmth, moved to one of the chairs, and sat down.

          The starlight and moonlight that entered through the window gave him enough light to see the room-- the cat-less room, at that. For a moment he wondered how Macavity had opened the bedroom door to leave, but she had also gotten in somehow. For all he knew, her magic abilities extended to more than just talking.

          He was wide awake and hated it. Sleep-- if it was dreamless-- would have been so incredibly welcome. He tried to tell his muscles that they were tired; reminded them of the miles of corridor they had walked today. They would have none of it. Harry grumbled and threw his head back in the chair.

          He was hungry. Again. _Gods, I had a bloody enormous supper, what's wrong with me?_ he thought. _Probably trying to gorge myself after the fast at the Dursleys. Maybe I should go down to the kitchen for a snack._

          He paused and considered it. Well, why not? Maybe warm milk, which Hermione always said was supposed to put you to sleep. He had never had any, and thought it sounded ghastly, but at the moment it was worth a try.

          He grabbed the robe he had noticed hanging earlier in the bathroom, his wand for light, and made his way into the immense dark maze of the castle at night.


	7. Six: Explanation: Author Hates Warm Milk

A Season for Healing

By Dien

Summary and disclaimer in part one.

Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is PG.

Notes: __

Continual thanks to lovely beta Nyarth. Everyone: GO READ HER STUFF! She's in my Favorite Authors. Go! Go! *but finish this first*

At least four people guessed what would happen next. I feel... sob... _predictable._ It's shameful.

Ah well. Continual, ever-lasting thanks to all my reviewers. I write for you people. :D

To those who want the romance **_now_**_:_ Tough luck. :) Quote from Princess Bride: "This is True Love. You think this happens every day?" In other words, I intend to take my time with this. *adopts talk-show tone* They have so much resentment and pain to work through before we can even consider a healthy relationship... *grin*

Don't worry. Romance will get here, in Her own unique time. This is not the only epic I have going, but it's one of them. It could take a LONG while to finish.

'Peaking on sheer intravenous...' comes (sort of) from the introduction to the AUTHORITY comic book, written by Grant Morrison (the intro, not the book, which is written by Warren Ellis). Pick it up.

Goat Song: (what an... interesting handle by the way...) I've made Dark Angel Butterfly Official Keeper of Fenris on the weekends... you may have Macavity if you like, and think you can handle v.01 AND v.02... :p E-mail me if you do.

Aza, dear: Don't beat me! I was just getting so swamped with 'Net activity I dropped nearly everything I didn't have mod responsibilities in so I could get back to writing. *sheepish grin* Maybe someday I'll be back...

Sova: Good point about magic on hols. I've an idea on how to handle that, and I'll see if I can stick it next chappie.

Minnionette: Your question too will eventually be answered. I hope.

Kouji: Another good question, about Harry's final... I'll see if I can't address it. Later. :D

Alisan-chan: I needed gender equality on the animal staff and Mac was the only one who consented to get 'reversed.' But she wouldn't give up her name. :D

**AHEM: I've gotten tired of e-mailing updates. :) So, I have instead got us a Yahoo! Group for purposes of same. You may also discuss there if you like. I may even give out spoilers/answer questions/be nice to people who join... Can be found here:**

**http://groups.yahoo.com/group/seasonofhealing/**

**Chapter Six. **_In which an encounter in the kitchen occurs, as told from the POV of one Severus Snape._

Severus carefully slipped the cork into the last of the bottles containing the Pepper-Up Potion and straightened up slowly, conscious of an aching back and fingers. Pepper-Up might be simple to make, but it was also extremely time-consuming. He'd spent a whole day on the bloody thing.

          He winced at the sharp pains that shot through his neck as he rotated his head, trying to free muscles of the stiffness acquired through long hours of concentration. He was tired. Exhausted, even.

          But a _good_ tired-- the sort that came after eight, nine, ten... well, twenty hours of pure composition and work. The Pepper-Up had been a side note; the true accomplishment of the day was the softly glowing purple liquid that simmered over one of the workshop's flames.

          He walked over to it and used the long handled spoon to give it a stir. The consistency was good; just as he'd hoped. He dipped a small ladle into the mixture and pulled it out. Amethyst-hued drops fell from the scoop to land back in the thick mixture.

          Severus placed the small sample of the mixture in a secure, specially designed glass tube. He muttered the spell to seal the bottle, and it was instantly a solid cylinder with no openings. Perfect, and no outside influences to get in and spoil it. He set the sealed bottle on a shelf with many others. They were his method of insurance while making potions-- whenever he was at a good stopping point in a new creation, he'd take a sample, so if he later screwed up the active batch, he'd have a reference point to check back with. It was rather like taking a snapshot.

          That done, he turned back to the cauldron and stared into the deep purple depths. The fragrant, lilac-scented steam escaped through vents near the ceiling, but the room was still unbearably warm. He systematically stripped off gloves, goggles, and the heavy apron.

          The high counter that stood in the centre of the room was currently covered in sheets of parchment. With quick impatient movements, he grabbed one of the pieces and the nearby quill and began to scrawl more notes. 

          His working notes were unintelligible to anyone but himself and occasionally his sister-- a combination of sheer genius being placed on paper, and the absolutely atrocious quality of his hurried handwriting. Calculations, measurements, instructions, proportions, comments, observations, and lists of ingredients filled sheet after sheet in an cramped and ungodly shorthand he had inherited from his mother. 

Albus Dumbledore had once said that if you had taken a chicken, fed it a Hallucination Draught, stuck its feet in ink, and let it run around on paper, the resulting nonsense would be more legible than Severus Snape's notes.  Severus had replied that his notes were not for other people to read, but for himself, and that he had absolutely no problem with his handwriting. Dumbledore had chuckled, and the matter had been dropped-- though the Headmaster of Hogwarts had demanded any papers meant for the inspection of others had to be understandable. So Snape effectively had two styles of handwriting-- one he used for his own benefit, and the other, a beautiful and precise blackletter script he had learned from his ever-proper father. The system worked.

He placed the latest notes atop a stack of other, similarly filled sheets, then cast a glance at the cauldron. It could simmer unattended for a while. This was wonderful as he admitted he needed a break.

He cleaned up a bit and then climbed the stairs that led back up to the library tower. A glance at the carved grandfather clock that lurked malevolently on the tower's ground floor revealed it was nearly one in the morning.

Until two, then. An hour would be enough to rest. Get some coffee into his system, maybe twenty minutes or so of resting his eyes, then work out what the next ingredient would be.

He crossed the courtyard towards the part of the castle that housed the kitchen. The cold air of the early early morning felt delicious after the stifling, steamy heat of the workshop, and he undid the top two buttons of his work shirt. 

As he walked, his long strides taking him quickly across the paving stones, he couldn't help the smile that curled his lips. This was _perfect-- _this was what he lived for. The chance to work. Peaking on sheer intravenous creative energy.

There was a purpose in this particular potion, of course; if he _could_ make it work, it would be undeniably his most useful and life-saving concoction yet. But when the energy was alive-- when he was blazing through ingredient after ingredient, calling on a mental inventory of literally thousands of plants and mixtures and powders as he searched for the _one_ perfect ingredient, the one that would make it _work_-- when calculations swirled through his brain with a potency all their own-- when he suddenly _knew_ what he needed to do next-- when he added and measured and crafted and mixed and it all came together under the motions of his hands... when he put things together in a way they had never been put together before and made something magical and powerful and alive and potent...

Then it didn't matter if he was creating a recipe to cure boils or save lies. He was _creating._ The energy, the rush, tore through his veins like a tidal wave. He could bottle fame, brew glory, stopper Death herself.

Nothing better. Nothing like it.

And he _could_ work. It was _summer._ His time, his season. No students, no god-awful children sitting dumbly through lectures they would never remember about a subject they would never appreciate. Little fools. Taking his time up, taking time away from _this._

But it was summer. He could work for days, going on sheer adrenaline and alcohol and potions and the food Wiggin considerately shoved down his throat. It would come together-- oh sweet taste of success-- and then he would take a day or two off for sleep, reading, sunlight, music (the violin would be taken out of its case), wine. Maybe visit London, take in a play... and then when he was sated, the itch would start again, and he'd begin thinking of what waited back in the workshop, and he'd go back to being something that was a little like scientist and a little like artist and a little like God. A sorcerer in the truest and highest sense of the word.

Sometimes he would put on Beethoven while he worked; listen to the man's glorious genius and madness and imagine the man also creating, symphonies and stanzas flowing onto paper, and he'd feel a kinship connecting them over the centuries. The same empathy he experienced when he saw Michelangelo or Leonardo's artworks. 

To be a Master. To create.

The idiot smile was still on his face as he entered the kitchens and sat down wearily at the central table, rolling his neck in a further attempt to get the kinks out. Nezzy was already at his elbow, asking him what he wanted. Normally, he'd tell her to _'move, dammitall, I can make a sandwich for myself'_ which would annoy the hell out of her... but he was tired enough that he didn't care.

"Coffee. Please. And some fruit. And bread," he murmured, sliding down in the chair with boneless languor. God, but it felt good to relax.

Nezzy and a few of the others bustled around on the fringe of his peripheral vision, and in half an instant he was holding the strong coffee and had a plate of oranges and berries and melons at one elbow. Another plate appeared a half second later, with slices of at least three different kinds of bread. He smiled faintly. Overkill, of course. Silly elves.

He sipped at his coffee, leaned his head back, and felt tension drain out. Um. All he needed was a bloody massage, and he'd either die or ascend to Nirvana. Or both...

The sound of soft footsteps pierced the haze of his contentment, and if he hadn't been utterly wiped out from working intensely since five o'clock on the previous morning, he would have been _up_ and with wand out. His reflexes, bred into him and honed by a lifetime of curses, hexes, spying, duels, magic, and death, were excellent.

But he was tired, and drained, and this was his well-protected home, where he could allow himself to relax. Perhaps these accounted for why it was a full three seconds after Harry Potter stopped dead in the kitchen doorway that Severus's eyes finally shot open and fixed on the intruder.

_What in fucking hell. Is Harry Potter. Doing in. My home, _his mind said in something that was half moan and half scream. Could he possibly be having a waking nightmare?

Right on the heels of the first question came: _Nightmare, yes, so why has my twisted and perverse subconscious chosen to dress Potter in guest robe, glasses, glaringly hideous boxers, and nothing else? Not that it's not a fetching look on him._

_Dear God. Did I just think that?_

_I'm tired. I'm very, very tired._

The apparition spoke. Squeaked. Something. "Professor Snape."

_Oh hell. That's right. The boy is _staying_ here. Oh HELL._

"Potter," he managed to rasp out, and sat up with an effort in the chair.

The boy seemed to erupt into a flood of words. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to intrude on you, I just came down for a little snack, I had some trouble sleeping, I--"

_Merlin and Circe. Too much bloody noise._

Severus made a instinctive cutting motion with his hand and Potter miraculously shut up.

_Oh **thank** you._

He relished the blessed silence for a moment with his eyes closed, but it was not to last. If it wasn't Potter speaking, it was one of those blasted things that was supposed to on _his_ side.

"Master Potter!" squeaked Nezzy in a tone so motherly it put Wiggin straight out of business. "Was Master Potter having trouble sleepings? Nezzy is giving him a glass of warm milk, which will be putting him straight to sleepings!"

Severus cringed. Thank God Nezzy could no longer force that _stuff_ on him. Not that she didn't still try. For a moment he found himself once more pitying Harry Potter.

The Boy Who Lived... Through Warm Milk.

"Master Potter should be sitting, yes? Sit!" barked the formidable kitchen-elf, and a rather helpless Harry Potter obeyed, sitting at the opposite end of Severus's table. He wasn't sure if he imagined the apologetic look on the boy's face.

A few seconds passed in uncomfortable silence as Nezzy, also known as the domineering she-tyrant of the kitchen, bustled around making her cure for all the evils of the world.

"So... Professor Snape. Um. Had trouble sleeping?" Potter asked awkwardly from where he hunched at his end of the table, pulling his robe tightly around his nearly bare figure. Severus rolled his eyes at his coffee. Next time the idiot boy would know better than to walk around half-naked, wouldn't he?

Oh. And he was asking a question. Making _conversation._ Damn the fool. Didn't he know it was-- glance at the kitchen clock-- after one o'clock in the morning?

"No, Mr. Potter. I was working."

"... Working?"

"On a potion. Research."

"Oh..."

_'Oh,' indeed. The damn fool wouldn't know research if it bit him on his little Gryffindor arse._

"... So, was it going well?"

"What?"

"Was, uh, your research going well?"

"Oh. Yes. Yes, it was," Severus replied, the question distracting him from the person asking as he once more thought happily of how far he'd gotten with the potion. Even Potter couldn't ruin that feeling, that glow of satisfaction.

With an odd little twist in his gut he realized it had been some time since someone asked how his work was going. Albus did sometimes, but the man was so very busy these days, running a school and a covert war at the same time... Siobhan _might_ ask, but Lord knew she had projects of her own. The animals didn't ask about his work as potions were both uninteresting and incomprehensible to them. Wiggin just saw to it that he had food to keep working.

He hadn't thought it mattered to him whether others asked about his work or not. Circe knew he didn't create for _them._ He made potions for himself. Benefits others might gain from his work were incidental.

So why... did he feel this odd little flush of... pleasure? Pride? He shook his head angrily, staring into the dark depths of his coffee mug.

"Going very well," he heard his own voice repeat blankly. He tore his gaze away from the brown liquid to stare up at Harry Potter as the boy was handed his warm milk by a cheerfully smiling Nezzy. House-elves, as far as he knew, had no biological need for sleep. 

Now _why_ couldn't his mother have seen fit, in her mad little experiments, to try and graft _that_ particular trait?

He drained the last half-inch of coffee and held the cup out for a refill, idly taking a bite of bread while he waited. It wasn't until the solid food hit his stomach that he realized how hungry he was, and set to work on the rest of the plate. 

Potter was staring at him. He forced his eyes from the food up to the Gryffindor currently infesting not only his day but his night, and sighed.

"Enjoying the milk, Potter?"

Severus nearly laughed aloud at the expression on the boy's face. Harry Potter shot a nervous gaze to make sure Nezzy wasn't watching him, then made a face as if he had swallowed something scraped from the bottom of a cauldron. Enough dignity remained that he managed to convert the laugh into a snort.

Nezzy was refilling the cup when he spoke again, mostly out of a vague feeling that it was still his turn to try and observe the social niceties of conversation.

"Well, Potter, exactly what are you planning to do with yourself for the holidays?"

Potter put down the milk he had been sipping half-heartedly, made another face, and answered hesitantly. "Well... I've got homework, of course... maybe for once I'll actually get some studying done over the summer," he said with a grin, than instantly sobered as he remembered who he was talking to.

"... and, uh..."

"Spit it out, Potter."

"I... was wondering if, um, I might-- could do some flying, in the courtyard. With my broom."

Severus froze. _The freedom of soaring. The indescribable sensation of unfettered, natural flight. Then. Pain. Harsh cruel strong fingers, crumpling him, ripping him from the sky. He fell. Forever. Pieces of him ripped off, he was still in the clutch of the monster. Broken and tattered. Falling. The ground--_

"Sir? Did... did you hear me? I said-- I asked if I could fly around the courtyard..."

**No!** No no no. A thousand times no. Gods no. 

He dragged his gaze up from the coffee cup, forcing his fingers to unclench around it, and looked at Potter's face. He was conscious of the pounding in his veins, the sudden lack of oxygen in his lungs, and fought through it. He _would not_ give in to it.

"I... don't see why that would be a problem," he managed after a moment, sure the cup was going to shatter in his hand.

The boy's face broke into another genuine grin, an expression he'd rarely seen on the boy. _(Well, not surprising, as we hate each other's innards with a passion only surpassed by our hatred of each other's outards.)_ Oddly, his smile looked _nothing_ like James Potter's. 

"Thank you, Professor," said Potter. Severus closed his eyes briefly and nodded. He felt dizzy and drank from the cup in an attempt to wash the dizziness away.

"Uh... one other thing..."..."

_Yes? What, Potter? How about, May I also have permission to hit you in the head ninety-nine times, sir?_

"Well?"

"Can I, uh, read some of the books in the tower?"

Severus blinked. _My God. Did the little bugger just ask permission to do something intelligent?_

"That's... that would be fine. _However_," he added sharply, "wreck, ruin, or lose anything in my library and I'll be using your skin to bind my next volume of notes."

Potter swallowed in what was a gratifyingly intimidated fashion. Severus smiled grimly, feeling a little more like himself at the sight.

Nezzy interrupted the discussion with an irritated sigh. "Master Potter, you is not drinking your milk! Now it is all cold! Wait. Nezzy is getting you some more..."

"No! I mean-- uh, no thanks, that's all right, I'm _very_ sleepy. It worked. I think I'll just go back to bed," the boy said hurriedly, then tacked on what had to be the most blatantly fake yawn Severus had ever seen. Nezzy looked at him suspiciously, and Severus once again managed to restrict laughter to a snort.

The boy was standing up, his robe still wrapped tightly around him. He turned and headed for the door.

"Before you go, Potter..."

"Sir?"

"Don't make a habit of walking around the house at night. This is an _old_ house. Things live here that I really don't think you'd want to meet in the dark. Also, there are wards you could inadvertently trip. The resulting mess would be something I'd rather not have to clean up."

"Uh... yes sir. Good night, sir."

Severus felt his mouth twisting in a perverse little smile. "Pleasant dreams."

The boy mercifully left, and Severus drained the last of the coffee before he rested his head on his forearms and engaged in a nice long round of creative, masterful, energetic swearing.

When the throbbing headache began to pass, he straightened up and sighed. Why hadn't he said no? He should have said no. Idiot boy would be flying-- _flying--_ around the damn house. Perfect.

He cursed a few more times, ignoring Nezzy's disapproving Look, then stood. Enough. Back to work, and the oblivion he hoped he would find there.


	8. Seven: Oh, the Surreality of It All

A Season for Healing

By Dien

Summary and disclaimer in part one.

Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is PG.

Notes: __

Continual thanks to lovely beta Nyarth. Everyone: GO READ HER STUFF! She's in my Favorite Authors. Go! Go! *but finish this first*

**Chapter Seven. **_In which an encounter in the kitchen occurs, as told from the POV of one Harry Potter._

Harry got lost only once on the way down to the kitchen-- and that, he told himself, was due to the fact that the house seemed much different in the dark. Thankfully, he stumbled across a familiar corridor, and was soon back on the right track.

The house was colder in the dark, too. He was looking forward to the bright, cosy warmth of the kitchen he had briefly experienced earlier that day. Until then the robe and the muttered heating charms would have to do.

He smiled slightly, remembering how envious Ron and Hermione had been of his official permission to use magic on the holidays. With his status as Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived and Voldemort Target Without Equal, Dumbledore had talked Fudge and the Ministry into lifting the ban on underage magic, at least for him. It had been argued that he might need to be able to cast spells freely, in the interests of self-defence. He admitted to himself that a heating charm didn't quite fit the bill, but he doubted it was going to be an issue.

There. The kitchen doorway was open, spilling a rectangle of warm yellow light into the stone corridor. He walked even quicker, rounded the corner--

And stopped dead.

Severus Snape was sitting at the main table. Except, sitting was an odd adjective to use for such a pose, which was more like... lolling. Slouching. Slumping. Lounging. Sprawling.

He hadn't known Severus Snape was capable of doing any of those. He felt completely justified in doing a double take, to make sure this was really his Potions professor he was looking at.

Well... it looked like Snape... The man was still dressed in the trousers, boots, and stained dress shirt-- was it _unbuttoned?_ By God, it was. The top two buttons, at least. Snape's head was thrown back, showing off a neck that did not, contrary to the rumours that floated around Gryffindor Tower, sport the bite marks that would denote vampirism. The face displayed an expression that Harry could not, in a thousand years, associate with Professor Snape, despite the fact he was seeing it on the man right now.

The eyes were lazily closed, and the mouth was _smiling_. That would be a smile. On Snape. Not a smirk, not a sneer, not 'isn't-it-amazing-how-simply-lifting-a-corner-of-my-mouth-adequately-conveys-my-disdain-and-contempt-for-all-things-moving.' No, this was a genuine, happy, contented, dreamy smile.

Harry half-expected a flying pig to crash-land on the table in front of him, just to complete the scene.

And then Snape's eyes opened. His confusion was apparent for a split-second in their obsidian depths, and then they focused on him with the usual familiar malice and loathing. 

"Professor Snape," Harry heard his own voice manage, then mentally damned it. _Oh now, wasn't _that_ an astute observation? You were expecting maybe the Easter Bunny? _his own inner sarcastic bastard commented, in a tone eerily reminiscent of Snape. _Great. My subconscious sounds like him. Just great._

"Potter," Snape said roughly, returning to the pose Harry associated with the man: back ramrod straight, hands flat on the surface before him. For a moment, Harry found himself inexplicably saddened, and wondered at the feeling. Perhaps it was just that he'd never seen Snape _content_ before. Relaxed. Happy. 

That was sad for some reason he couldn't express.

He was aware his mouth was running on auto-pilot. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to intrude on you, I just came down for a little snack, I had some trouble sleeping, I--"

Snape's eyes closed unhappily, and one of the hands came up off the table to slice the air with a curt motion. Harry felt his own mouth shut instinctively at the motion, and thanked six years of Potions class for that.

For one moment, he just stared at the man before him, wondering how in hell he was going to manage an effective retreat, and then another voice, this one high and squeaking, intruded: "Was Master Potter having trouble sleepings? Nezzy is giving him a glass of warm milk, which will be putting him straight to sleepings!"

Oh God. The milk. No, he really didn't want the milk now...

Before he could articulate a response, he was being forced into the chair opposite Snape's. He sat with dread fermenting in the pit of his stomach, conscious that his presence _really **wasn't **_welcome right now to the man currently glaring from the other end of the table.

A heavy and embarrassed silence filled the air. Harry wished desperately that Snape would speak, if only to reprimand him or something. What on earth was the other man doing up at this hour? Harry's brain seized the inherent question and forced it down to his vocal chords, the rest of him protesting all the while.

"So... Professor Snape. Um. Had trouble sleeping?"

He thought he saw Snape roll his eyes and didn't blame him in the slightest. That had been rather inane. Too much to hope for an answ--

"No, Mr. Potter. I was working."

Oh. "... Working?"

"On a potion. Research."

"Oh..."

_Damned if I am not the most eloquent screw-up to ever grace the halls of this house, _Harry mocked himself. _What did you _think _a Potions Master would be working on, nitwit? Charms?!?_

"... So, was it going well?" he asked tentatively. So far the man hadn't called him an idiot to his face. That had to be good, right?

"What?" Snape asked sharply. He fought the urge to flinch.

"Was, uh, your research going well?"

"Oh. Yes. Yes, it was..." Snape said softly, his eyes losing focus. For a moment, that weird little smile seemed to flicker across his mouth again. Harry stared, amazed. It was so easy to catalogue Snape by the things he _disliked_ (Harry, Gryffindors, students, humans...) that the thought of something giving him pleasure was... surreal... 

The smile hovered for about a half second before Snape seemed to shake it off with an impatient little gesture, staring morosely into his coffee cup. "Going very well," he repeated absently, as if not even aware of who he was talking to.

Nezzy was shoving a steaming cup of something that smelled rather awful in his face. Too afraid to refuse it, he accepted it and took a sip. And fought not to gag.

He set the cup down with a shudder, and looked at Snape instead. The man was practically wolfing down the bread on the plate next to him. It was incongruous with his normally dignified and precise actions.

"Enjoying the milk, Potter?" drawled an all-too familiar voice that sounded amused. Harry couldn't help making a face that was very indicative of the taste of his drink. His professor snorted, looking away.

Another silence settled in. Perhaps it was Harry's imagination but they seemed to be getting less awkward. He tried another swallow from his cup.

"Well, Potter, exactly what are you planning to do with yourself for the holidays?"

Harry set down the cup and successfully hid surprise at his professor making small talk. Imagine that. "Well... I've got homework, of course... maybe for once I'll actually get some studying done over the summer," he said with a small chuckle, before remembering one didn't 'chuckle' with Professor Snape. He trailed off into nothing, trying to screw up his courage to ask the question. Asking favours of Snape-- what was the world coming to...

"... and, uh..."

"Spit it out, Potter."

He took a deep breath. "I... was wondering if, um, I might-- could do some flying, in the courtyard. With my broom."

Harry wasn't prepared for the indescribable expression that crossed Snape's face, though it was gone as quickly as it had come. The professor stared into his coffee, his face suddenly paler than usual. One of the long-fingered hands was clenched around the cup so tightly the knuckles turned white. 

Was Snape ill? He almost looked it. Harry wondered what the hell he had said to trigger that... or if Snape had heard him at all. Perhaps the man was in a bad shape from working all day? He bit his lip, and asked cautiously, "Sir? Did... did you hear me? I said-- I asked if I could fly around the courtyard..."

Snape slowly looked up at him, and Harry stared, taken aback by the sheer terror in the black eyes-- no, there was nothing there. Harry was imagining things. 

"I... don't see why that would be a problem," Snape said, and Harry was too relieved to note the expressionless tone of the words.

"Thank you, Professor," he said with what he hoped was a grateful smile. The man nodded, looking tired. Harry felt oddly triumphant. _Let's go for broke._

"Uh... one other thing..."..."__

"Well?"

"Can I, uh, read some of the books in the tower?"

Snape blinked, then said, "That's... that would be fine. _However_-- wreck, ruin, or lose anything in my library and I'll be using your skin to bind my next volume of notes."

Harry's triumphant feeling quickly wilted and died in the face of the malice that crackled in the dark eyes. Thankfully, Nezzy interrupted. "Master Potter, you is not drinking your milk! Now it is all cold! Wait. Nezzy is getting you some more..."

"No! I mean-- uh, no thanks, that's all right, I'm _very_ sleepy. It worked. I think I'll just go back to bed," Harry said quickly, then tried a convincing yawn. Time to beat a retreat....

He was almost to the door, wondering if under the circumstances he should bid the professor good night, when Snape himself spoke. "Before you go, Potter..."

"Sir?" _If he says 'good night,' it will be entirely too surreal._

"Don't make a habit of walking around the house at night. This is an _old_ house. Things live here that I really don't think you'd want to meet in the dark. Also, there are wards you could inadvertently trip. The resulting mess would be something I'd rather not have to clean up."

_Dumb, Harry. Very dumb._

"Uh... yes sir. Good night, sir."

He felt rather than saw the smirk that accompanied Snape's parting shot, "Pleasant dreams."

Harry fled back to the comfort of his room and managed to not get lost once on the way. The bedroom door opened at his touch and he quickly threw himself under the covers and the warmth they represented.

Oddly, he _was_ tired now. He felt his muscles slowly slipping from his control, his eyes slowly drooping... His last conscious thought before sleep claimed him was, _Pleasant dreams? Yeah, right..._


	9. Eight: Culturally Ignorant Gryffindor Ph...

A Season for Healing

By Dien

Summary and disclaimer in part one.

Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is PG.

Notes: "Family of Ill Faith." Subtle plug of Azalais's neat-o series. Go check it out. And Review. She's in my faves.

"Letter from some grand exile?" Subtle plug of Textualsphinx's BEAUTIFUL Letter from Exile. Sphinx is in my FA, go read her and REVIEW.

"But that was in another country..." is from the play Jew of Malta, by Christopher Marlowe.

"One of the stately homos..." is of course Quentin CRISP, don't I feel stupid. Thanks to Tragos for catching that.... *thwaps self*

An explanation of Casimir: Basically, he's here so that I have someone to lust after once Severus and Harry start shagging. He's my stand-in. :P__

Continual thanks to lovely beta Nyarth. Everyone: GO READ HER STUFF! She's in my Favorite Authors. Go! Go! *but finish this first*

**Chapter Eight. **_In which Day Two of the Great Summer Experiment takes place, in which we meet Casimir, in which Harry receives owls. Though not necessarily in that order._

Harry yawned and stretched, hearing vertebrae crack in his neck. He smiled sleepily, pulling the thick comforter up to his chin and snuggling deeper in under the covers. Mmmm. This was what summer should _be._

Outside his window, birds were twittering and chirping merrily, seemingly as pleased as he was to be alive. He caught a glimpse of sky through the glass; clear and blue, not a cloud in sight. He smiled a bit more, thinking with anticipation of flying around the courtyard. At the moment, though, he was content to be lazy.

His eyes drifted shut again, and he exhaled in a satisfied fashion. Maybe just _five_ minutes more...

_Tap. Tap tap. Rap. Tap-rap. _Harry sighed and blinked, looking over to the window where the noise was coming from. In an instant his sleepiness was gone, and he threw back the covers and leapt from the bed. Four long strides took him over to the window, which he energetically threw open, unmindful of the still-cool morning air that rushed in. Who _cared--_ when Hedwig was back, with Strix and a letter from Ron?

His owl nearly attacked him in her own exuberance at the reunion, and it wasn't until he had petted her for a good five minutes that she finally relented and let him open his letter.

Harry ripped it open, eager to hear from his best friend.

_Harry--_

_Great to hear from you. We'd thought it might be something like that. George, Fred, and me were all for another Grand Rescue, but Mum put her foot down. _

_Everyone says hello. Gin and the twins wanted to send you dung bombs and other such fun. I got them to lay off-- told them 'not on his FIRST letter.' Second, sure, but not his first. I swear, she's as bad as them ever since they hired her to help in the shop. It's getting downright hazardous to accept ANYTHING from those three..._

_Been practising like bugger all. We're going to sweep Slytherin next year, wait and see. Gin's also shaping up to be a damn good Chaser-- though you never heard it from me._

_Alright, I have to try and guess? I bet you're some secret place only Dumbledore knows about or something. Dad and Mum said we shouldn't pry or get you to tell since it's your safety at stake and at all. What do they know, right? Anyways, I tried to guess. Give me at least a hint._

_And tell us if we can come visit, wherever this mystery place is._

_Take care._

_-Ron (and all the clan)_

Harry grinned. The refreshing cheerfulness of his best friend was a breath of fresh air.

Not that the air around here wasn't fresh to begin with. He inhaled deeply of the morning air, looking out over the grounds. Maybe today he'd do some exploring outside.

He folded up Ron's letter, chuckling slightly at the thought of what Ron's response to "I'm-staying-with-SNAPE" might be. He'd have to write back-- _after_ breakfast. First things first, and all...

Harry felt uncomfortable with the whole idea of summoning the house-elves at the ring of a bell, and blamed Hermione and her war for house-elf civil rights (even though SPEW hadn't been mentioned for quite some time now). He opted instead to go down to the kitchens for food, and five minutes later he was dressed and taking stairs three at a time on his way.

This time, the kitchen was empty except for the elves, who instantly bustled around him with food and drink. Harry happily settled in to eat.

When he was sated on the truly magnificent breakfast, he leaned back in his chair and sighed happily. A smile twitched the corners of his mouth as he remembered last night in this same kitchen, the exchange with Professor Snape.

The world, it seemed, was changing. Or at least his world. It was amazing how different, how much more human, Snape seemed out of robes and his classroom. He went from I-Exist-For-The-Sole-Purpose-Of-Making-Your-Life-Shit-Potter to something more like... normal. Human. A person who got tired, and had his triumphs and his failures, and slouched in his chair, and drank coffee with an expression like he was on the ninth cloud of heaven. And made sarcastic comments just because, because that was Snape, and Harry distantly understood it was just the way the man it was. Something intrinsic. You couldn't imagine him otherwise. 

_Maybe he's finally maturing a bit. Maybe he's realizing he has no justification in hating me. Maybe we could actually come to respect each other_, Harry mused to himself as he took one last bite of toast.

The world was _definitely_ changing.

The owl tower was the same crowded, bird-filled mess it had been yesterday- with the addition of one. Hedwig hooted softly at him and he smiled back at her, pausing to set his broom up against the wall before he pet her on her head-feathers. Then, he opened the drawer that contained the owlery's writing supplies and started his letter back to Ron.

_June 29_

_Ron--_

_Great to hear from you! The Rescue would've been nice, but last thing you need is getting in trouble with your mum AGAIN. _

_Thanks for the warning about the Gin/Twin combo. I'll be very careful before opening the next owl from your house._

_As for practice-- you should _see_ the place where I'm getting to fly. You'd gibber and drool. Which brings me to the next point. You did try and guess, so I'll give you a _hint:_ we have twenty-six house-elves waiting hand and foot, and no, it's not Hogwarts. I think there's more than that at H, anyway._

_Off to practice flying. I've gotten rusty last few weeks._

_                                                                                --Harry_

_P.S. As for visiting... we'd have to see about that!_

Hedwig was already eagerly hopping around, and he smiled indulgently at her. "Yes, you've got a letter to carry, silly bird. Hold still." As soon as it was affixed, the white owl hooted happily, and was off through the window with a flurry of wings. He smiled after her, then picked up his broom and left the owlery, careful to shut the door behind him. Who knew where Macavity might be?

A stiff breeze ruffled his hair as he stood on the battlements. The mid-morning sun was just warm enough that the breeze was welcome. He stepped to the edge of the curtain wall, looking into the courtyard. For a moment his eyes fixed on the base of the library tower, where Snape was probably working away on his bloody potions... then he looked back towards the big, empty volume of air that the courtyard represented. And grinned.

With skill born of familiarity, he threw his leg over the broomstick and eagerly took off. A long, hurtling dive towards the flagstones of the courtyard, pulling up at the last minute, rising in a twisting spiral to circle, madly, around the towers, weaving in and out and up--

The air was his space, his domain. He flattened himself to the broom, loving the feel of flying, loving the freedom. Here there was no war. No Voldemort. No death. No responsibility. Just-- _this._ Speed. Wind. Exhilaration. The air was _his._

He heard breathless laughter and realized it was his own.

Bubbles drifted slowly up through a semi-opaque liquid of a murky violet tint. Long, powerful fingers held the vial up to the light; keen black eyes stared at it condemningly. With a muttered curse, the liquid was poured down a drain, and the glass beaker it had been in set down with other empty containers, all waiting to be washed.

Severus sighed and sat back on his stool, rubbing the back of his neck with a tired hand. Obviously not persicaria.

He rested his chin on his hands and ran through ingredients. Asphodel. Convolvulus. 

Fennel. Teazel. Maidentears. Cinquefoil. Persicaria. No. No. And no.

Shrivelfig? No, it would interact badly with the powdered dragon's fang, as would extract of belladonna. Perhaps salamander skin. Yes? No? Properties-- _if not properly treated, feels hot to the touch, to the point of burning. Dried and powdered salamander skin is used in several preventative and blocking potions, including contraceptive draughts and Robell's Fire-Proofing Serum. _

The gentle notes of Pachelbel's _Canon in D_ flowed around him as he considered, tilting his head to one side. One of his hands dropped from his chin to pick up a quill and doodle absently on a piece of parchment. He did not so much as blink when a figure popped through the far wall of his workshop, though he did say irritably, "Casimir. I do wish you'd ask for permission before entering."

A ghostly pair of the black eyes that were the hall-mark of the Snape family regarded him with some slight sheepishness. In his crisp, polished tones, Casimir Snape-Malfoy said, "My apologies, Severus. I'm afraid I was bit perturbed. Are you aware there happens to be a young man-- a _live_ young man-- flying around the south tower yelling at the top of his lungs?"

Snape sighed and gestured for the ghost to have a seat. "I was not so clear on the yelling at the top of his gods-damned lungs part, but I was aware of a flying boy, yes," he said grimly. "Very aware, for that matter, as I spent a good two hours this morning altering the wards so he could fly his silly stick without getting deep-fried. He happens to be our guest for the summer; I thought Poe had told everyone by now. 

"...His yelling-- it upsets you?" Severus finished.

Casimir made an expression that managed to be disdainful, offended, annoyed, and impossibly aristocratic all at the same time. "It is rather _what_ he is yelling," he said distastefully. 

"Oh? Do tell," Severus said with an arched brow.

"Yes. 'Death to Slytherin' and 'Eat that, Malfoy!' are the primary battle-cries of your young guest, it seems. I cannot say I approve."

Severus couldn't help a chuckle. "He's a Gryffindor. What can I say? Gods... he's really _yelling_ 'Death to Slytherin'?"

"Indeed. May I ask what a _Gryffindor_--" the word was spat with such venom it was a wonder the air around the ghost didn't crackle, "is doing in our house? By Father Set's scales, I should think Lucien is _quite_ enough to satisfy any vacuum or quota that might exist."

Severus leaned back and regarded the ghost consideringly. Casimir was a ghost among ghosts, regal in his elegant eighteenth century clothing. His silvery-blond hair and pale face had been rendered even paler by death, providing a startling contrast to his black eyes. Their arrogance remained unabated, three centuries of ghost-hood not-withstanding. Currently, the aristocratic features that had made him a stunningly gorgeous man during life were grimacing in discontent, and Snape tried to think of a way to get him off Gryffindors. Possibly get him onto Malfoys.

"But surely you can't disapprove of the anti-Malfoy sentiment?" he asked casually, still doodling with the quill.

Ghostly black eyes snapped with anger. "Ohh, Malfoys. The family of ill faith indeed! A lot of cowards, of fools, of weaselling, shameful, shameless, dishonourable, grubbing, tasteless, tactless--"

"It's a pity you _are_ one, isn't it?" Severus murmured, half of his mind already returning to a different track. _However, powdered dragon's fang and powdered salamander skin together will--_

"That's right, bring up a man's failings and weaknesses," groused the ghost. "And it's _half,_ thank you very much. Well, as they say, we cannot choose our relatives. More's the pity." Casimir heaved an impossibly aristocratic sigh, then glanced curiously around Severus's workshop.

"I say. You've moved some things around, haven't you? Very nice. What are you working on?"

_Perhaps with unicorn hair to counteract the powder mixing? No-- that would render the hippogriff blood useless._ "Potion," he murmured aloud. Casimir looked annoyed.

"Fire and fang, Severus, simply because I did not have quite the same skill with a cauldron the rest of our illustrious family is known for does _not_ mean I am a _complete_ neophyte. I rather gathered the 'potion' part. Is any elaboration forthcoming?"

Severus's eyes had glazed over, and he was murmuring under his breath as he stared unseeing at jars on one of the walls. Casimir sighed. "Severus? Still with us, great-great-great-great-grand-nephew mine? Yoo-hoo. Sevvveerus...."

The live Snape blinked and focused and the ghost. "Thank you," he said breathlessly, then jumped up from his stool and began to hunt through the bottles and jars behind him on the wall. 

"_Burnt _salamander skin, why didn't I think of that? The ashes will have the same potency, but the difficulty with the powder should be overcome..." he muttered as he looked for the ingredient. Casimir looked bewildered and aristocratic. 

"Er... right. Glad to be of assistance. I think I'll just go stare unnervingly at the Gryffindor invading our house, alright?"

Snape waved a hand in dismissal, paying much more attention to his potions work than the ghost. As Casimir drifted out of the south wall, he muttered to himself, "Bloody workaholics..."

_The score was seventy to ninety, Slytherin in the lead. Draco Malfoy was zipping around frantically on a broom Harry would have sacrificed his Invisibility Cloak to hav-- well, _that_ was maybe going a bit far. _

_A Quaffle sailed through the air and the Gryffindor goal post. Harry groaned as Slytherin gained another ten points._

_In the stands, Dean and Hermione looked worried. But he didn't have time for that. Draco zipped by him, green-and-silver robes flapping annoyingly, and making enough snide comments about Gryffindor house that Harry had to wonder if he spent free time just sitting around coming up with them. _

_Ah. There! The little flash of gold. Yes. But Malfoy... he had to play this carefully. He zipped off round the tower. Then up. Then behind. As he'd predicted, Draco followed his every move. Exxceellllent._

_Quick turn now! Around! Over! Swoop! AND THE SNITCH WAS HIS!_

He pulled a loop-the-loop in the air, singing loudly (and very off-key), 

"Oh, A Slytherin named Malfoy

"Got his pale ass _kicked_

"By a Gryffindor named Potter

"Out on the Quidditch _pitch!"_

"Oh, he did, did he?" said a distinctly cool voice. Oh crap. That sounded like Snape. Harry opened his eyes to find himself flying through something-- no, make that someone-- cold and transparent. Eeeyehh.

Instantly, he leaned back to stop his broom, then swiveled around to see who he'd just flown through. He could feel his cheeks reddening. Man, now _that_ was embarrassing. Fantasizing about a Quidditch match. Aloud. And getting caught. And flying through the person doing the catching.

A ghost hovered in the air in front of him, which was no mean feat as they were some seventy feet off the ground. He was-- or had been-- a tall, slim, courtly man, with longish pale blond hair pulled back in a green velvet tie. Handsome enough by half. Jet-black eyes stared from under silvery-blond brows. And currently staring at Harry as if he was dealing with something he'd scraped off the bottom of his eighteenth-century heeled boots.

"Er... sorry," Harry managed. "Sorry. I'm... didn't see you. Or mean to fly through you. Sorry."

"Hmph."

"Umm. Sorry."

"Yes, so we've established. _What_, exactly, are you supposed to be?"

"Sorry?" the Boy Who Lived said, confused.

"Kindly stop saying that."

"Uh..." Harry muttered, biting his lower lip. "I think we got off on the wrong foot. I'm Harry Potter... I'm, well, a guest of Sn- Professor Snape's."

The ghost did not seem impressed. "Really."

"Really."

"A _Gryffindor._"

"Um, yes."

The ghost glared at him in an aristocratic fashion. Harry made his teeth let go of his lower lip. "Um, you're... Casimir Malfoy-Snape or something, right?"

The ghost stiffened with outrage. "That is _Casimir SNAPE-Malfoy_, **Mister**Potter-- and to you, that is _Lord_ Brennigan."

Harry winced. What was this, open-mouth-insert-foot contest? "Sorry," he muttered.

"_Stop_ that."

"Right. Sor-- I mean, uh, damn. I mean--"

"Hmph."

Harry closed his eyes and recollected Snape's comment that this was the 'decent' one to talk to. On _what_ planet? He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and tried again.

"Look, if I offended you, my apologies. I'm obviously new here and haven't been formally introduced yet. I also wasn't expecting to run into anyone up here," he said with a gesture to the empty air around them.

The ghost stared at him, a calculating expression on his face. "Indeed," he said after a moment's pause. "Very well. I accept your apology," he said regally, "and tender my own. I become, ah, irritable on the subjects of Snapes and Malfoys, as well as Slytherins and Gryffindors."

"Not all Gryffindors are bad, you know," Harry began cautiously.

Casimir Snape-Malfoy arched an aristocratic brow. "Indeed. I cannot argue with that. I once met two Gryffindors whose presence I could abide for periods up to an hour. But that was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead."

Harry blinked. "Sor-- I mean, what?"

Casimir shook his head sorrowfully. "Ah, one of the culturally ignorant. Well, young Philistine Gryffindor, I shall not hold it against you. It is a comment more on the state of society than it is on you. Scales of the Oroboros! They teach children _nothing, _these days..."

Harry shook his head and began taking his broom lower, towards the stone walkway below. Casimir floated easily next to him, seemingly pleasant now that they were off the subject of his name, or House rivalries.

"Might I inquire as to the reason for your stay here as our guest? Obviously, you're not here for social reasons," the ghost stated as they drifted downwards. Harry focused on that 'obviously' rather than answering the question.

"Why am I 'obviously' not here for social reasons?" he asked curiously. Casimir gave him a Look, and Harry was forced to re-evaluate his conclusion that Snape's glares came from his mother's side.

"Severus Snape, much as I love that young man and his many excellent qualities, does not list the skill of socializing as one of them. To be blunt, he does _not_ socialize. He disregards his position, duties, name, and place, and his sister is little better," the ghost stated grimly. "At least _she_ causes a scandal once in a while."

Harry was considering how to follow up that tantalizing bit of information, and hopefully get more out of Casimir on the subject, but Snape's ancestor was eyeing him critically. And still speaking, with words guaranteed to put all thoughts of Snape's sister out of mind.

"Of course, at first I thought you might be a, hmm, _friend_... but I think not, on closer inspection. Severus's gentlemen tend to be of legal age, last I checked."

If Harry had had any such thing as liquid in his mouth, he would have done a marvelous spit-take. As it is, he blinked and assimilated for several seconds.

"Uhm. Uh... gentlemen?"

The ghost was only half-listening to him, as they were down at the battlement level now and Casimir was focusing on floating at just the right height so it appeared he was standing on the stone rather than sinking into it. "Hmm? Yes," he said absently, staring at his feet and moving one half-inch higher.

"Gentlemen. As in, y'know, males. Guys. And all."

Mildly annoyed by the Gryffindor flair for repeating the obvious, Casimir nodded impatiently.

"Are you saying Snape's _gay?"_ said Harry, not sure what answer he was hoping/dreading. There were rumours, of course; just like the rumours of vampirism. But he had to admit he'd accorded them about the same amount of seriousness.

Casimir's faint annoyance grew stronger. Brushing an imaginary piece of lint from his crushed velvet shirt (in tasteful dark green) he said, "I believe that is the current term, yes. We, by which I mean the family, prefer to call him 'one of the great stately homos of old England;' a reference which you, being the young Gryffindor Philistine you are, are likely not familiar with. I suppose you're also homophobic?"

"Er," Harry managed, once more. "Em. Er. No. Not exactly."

Casimir peered at him severely, the kind of peering one normally does over the tops of glasses, except the ghost was not wearing any. "Hmmmmm."

Harry found his damned blush creeping once more to his cheeks. Fortunately for him, Somebody Upstairs was watching out for him that day, because his embarrassment was conveniently interrupted by an owl.

A tawny owl was wheeling down out of the sky with a soft hoot, her wings flapping as she brought herself to a stop on the end of Harry's broomstick. It was Aluco, the owl he'd dispatched to Hermione.

He took the letter from her claws, and with one more hoot, she was off to the owlery, not even staying to be thanked. He shrugged and busied himself with opening the missive.

_Dear Harry~_

_So glad to get your owl! Whose is the owl, by the way? She wouldn't accept payment, and looked like she was impatient to be going, so I'm writing this quickly and hoping she'll stay long enough to get it sent._

_Good to hear from you of course, but that goes without saying. Have you been making up your Transfiguration final? I _told_ you and Ron both that practising Quidditch instead of studying would have its drawbacks, but you didn't listen, did you? Males._

_I'm sure I have no idea where you are. Maybe with Sirius or Remus? No, you said it was someone I would never guess, so it can't be them as I just guessed them. Well, I suppose you'll tell me sooner or later. Promise me you're keeping a low profile and not doing a lot of magic to draw attention to yourself. Just because the Ministry says you _can_ doesn't mean you _should_. Oh, who am I kidding? You're probably charming and hexing everything within reach._

_Oh dear, that owl's getting impatient. I'll write more as soon as I can, write back, alright?_

_~Love,_

_Hermione_

Harry chuckled, imagining the thought of Hermione trying to scribble down the note while the owl shifted anxiously on the windowsill. Her handwriting did look awfully rushed.

"Letter from some grand exile?" Casimir's voice intruded.

"Huh?" Harry said, and Casimir shook his overly-handsome head. "Never mind, Philistine child. I shan't intrude.

"Well, if you'll excuse me, Mister Potter, I have things to do and graves to visit on such a lovely summer's day as this. It was a pleasure-- admittedly mixed, but it showed definite signs of improvement towards the end-- talking with you. If I've your leave, I shall be off to hunt down the damnable raven for a game of chess."

"Oh, um, sure. It was nice talking to you to, Mr. Um. Lord Brennigan, I mean."

Casimir waved a transparent hand airily. "Oh, never mind that. I was in the throes of passionate indignation when it was said. Technically speaking, I haven't been Lord Brennigan for two hundred and seventy one years. You may call me Casimir, so please it you."

"Okay. Thanks, Casimir. Er, you can call me Harry, if you'd like."

"How... decent of you, young man. Good day."

And with that, the ghost slid down into the stones beneath Harry's feet and was gone. He smiled slightly and shook his head. This place was still going to take some getting used to. Idly, he wondered how Casimir had died, but supposed he'd find out sooner or later.

Hermione's letter tucked safely into one pocket, he sighed and decided to head back to his inside the house. He was getting hungry after the several hours of flying he'd indulged in. And there was always his studying to start on...


	10. Nine: My Snape Ate My Homework

A Season for Healing

By Dien

Summary and disclaimer in part one.

Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is PG-13 or R for language or something.

Notes: _The Waste Land and Other Poems_ is by T.S. Eliot. I recommend it most highly. As if Eliot needs _my_ recommendations, being the greatest poet of the bloody century....

Severus is obviously a cosmopolitan (yet discerning) reader, digesting things by Muggle and magical authors both.

Continual thanks to lovely beta Nyarth. Everyone: GO READ HER STUFF! She's in my Favorite Authors. Go! Go! *but finish this first*

**Chapter Nine. **_In which Harry-- oh my GOD-- uses a library of his own volition._

Severus hummed under his breath and gave the smoking violet liquid another careful stir with the bronze ladle. Time to take another sample. He grabbed another of the distinctive bottles, scooped the necessary amount of liquid into it, and sealed it. 

Then he placed a heavy iron lid on top of the brewing cauldron, so it could bubble away happily to itself. He turned and stripped off his dragonhide work gloves, tossing them onto the central counter.

Finally, he allowed himself to plop onto one of the stools and lay his head down on the cool stone of the counter. It felt heavenly. The soft background noises of the simmering mixture barely intruded into his mind. The stone under his cheek was a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the rest of the room. Heavy, clinging warmth, that seeped into one's bones and made one want to stretch like a cat, then curl up in an armchair and... just... close... one's eyes...

Severus jerked upright on the stool, his hands knocking a stack of notes to the floor, as the sound of the library's solid door closing heavily overhead woke him from the half-doze he had been indulging in. The requisite swearing as he snatched and grabbed at the parchments was rather satisfying. He shoved the untidy pile of paper under a cast-iron thermometer that made a good paper-weight, then stalked towards the stairs. 

As he'd thought. It was Potter in the library, looking around hesitantly at the shelves. The boy's back was to him, that unruly mop of black hair even messier than usual. Probably from all that flying. Severus grimaced a bit more at that thought, remembering how long and how much effort it had taken to alter the wards-- just so Harry bloody Potter could fly around yelling "Death to Slytherins."

Snape was in a reasonably perverse mood, and found himself walking silently over the library floor to stand behind Potter as the boy scanned the shelves. "Looking for something, Potter?" he said sharply, and had the delight of watching the boy jump a good six inches in the air.

"Professor Snape!" his sometime-student wheezed as he turned around, trying to back up a step and hitting the shelf immediately behind him.

Severus sneered. "An astute observation. What are you looking for, Potter?"

"Um... uh..."

Snape rolled his eyes. Damn the boy. Couldn't he answer a simple question? "Kindly spit it out. I'm not in the mood to listen to you stutter."

Potter flushed angrily and then said firmly, "I was looking for some books on Transfiguration. I'm trying to do make-up study for my test."

"Actually applying yourself to your schoolwork, without Granger here to force you? Why, Mr. Potter, I _am_ impressed," he drawled, letting the sarcasm carry him. Being rude to Harry Potter felt like something overdue. Before the boy had a chance to answer, he turned on his heel and walked to the central table, on which a few books and random papers were scattered about.

One of the volumes which lay on the table's surface was a good five inches thick, bound in a richly-tooled leather cover, and positively exhaled dust and age. He hefted it with one hand and turned to show it to Potter.

"This," he sighed, "is the Catalogue. No matter where you leave it, it will always find its way back to this table. It is an alphabetical listing of every book in the library, updated instantly by magic. For instance, if you were to bring a copy of your fascinatingly highbrow _Quidditch Through the Ages_ inside with you, it would automatically be listed in the Catalogue, and disappear from the listing when you took it out of the tower."

He opened the book to a random page and thrust it under Potter's nose, pointing to an entry as he did so. "It lists the book name, the author, the subject the book deals with, and the section of the library it is located in. This volume is _Tangrams and Tortoises: A Dialogue on the Divinations of Fu Hsi_, written by Kun Lo, dealing with 'eastern magics, divination, tangrams,' etc, etc, and it can be found on shelf 82." 

Snape gestured vaguely to a shelf about half-way up the tower as he spoke, then pointed towards the carpets by the table. "You _will not_ be using _those_ to access the books. To be blunt, I do not trust you with the family carpets. Instead, you will either use the staircases and thus get exercise, or make use of the opportunity to hone your skill with the _Accio_ charm.

"Finally, the Catalogue is searchable by subject, or indeed any of the search terms. Simply rest your hand on the closed cover, state what you are looking for in a clear voice, then open the book. The search will be wiped if you close the Catalogue again, however, and you will have to start again."

Severus dropped the weighty volume into Potter's hands, smiled in what even he had to admit was a bit nasty fashion, and said, "Enjoy."

The boy had absorbed it all without speaking, though he had blinked once or twice and now stared uncertainly down at the book. "Um... right. Thank you. I think."

Snape snorted and turned without answering, preparing to head back down to the workshop... but suddenly felt reluctant to enter back into that hot, heavy atmosphere. He realized he was at the point where he needed a substantial break from work to keep from getting burnt out. Ideally, this was where he would find one of the many chairs scattered throughout the library, take up a favourite book, and enjoy a break... but damned Potter was in the tower with him.

For a second he wavered, then snarled inwardly. He was _not_ going to let the boy drive him from his own library. Severus headed towards the foot of one of the staircases, summoned his well-worn copy of _The Waste Land_, and began to climb to the very top of the tower.

As he headed up the stairs towards the glass-enclosed top level, he heard Potter addressing the Catalogue behind him and sighed. 

Just as long as the brat was _quiet_.

Harry thumbed through the extensive volume slowly. He hadn't even known there _were_ this many books on Transfiguration. Way, way, way too many. He had no idea where to start.

And what was he supposed to make of Severus Snape, sometime bastard? He frowned down at the book pages, shaking his head slightly. The man was... really... _annoying_. 

For six years of being taught by the professor, it had been all too easy to sum him up with simple adjectives: greasy, sarcastic, miserable, jealous, petty, shallow, spiteful, biased. 'Human' hadn't been one of them. Even when he had known Snape was a member of Dumbledore's trusted inner circle, the Order of the Phoenix, and that his professor was risking his life to spy for their side, it had still been so _easy_ to dismiss him for what he "knew" the man to be.

Funny how a day and a half could totally throw you. A day and a half in which you learned... all sorts of things. That Snape had a sister. That Snape had had what sounded like an arsehole for a father. That Snape was a human who maybe actually had a life, under all that sarcasm.

(Oh, and that Snape was queer. Harry had been mulling over that in the hour since his conversation with Casimir, and still wasn't sure how he felt about it, if indeed he should feel anything about it.)

But you could learn more than enough to make you wonder, suddenly, if maybe you'd made a mistake. Maybe you'd judged too quickly. Maybe...

And then the man went and acted like _that,_ and you realized, no, you had not made a mistake. The man was a bastard, plain and simple.

Harry stared up towards the landing Snape had disappeared over the top of, though all he could see was the underside of the landing at the moment. For a minute, he wondered what would happen if he went up and joined the man there, taking his homework with him.

The possibility of getting hexed was strong, and he decided to do his work on the ground floor.

Right then. Time to decide on some of these books and get to work. Snape didn't think he could study without Hermione helping him? They'd just _see_ about that.

He summoned several of the books by title, smiling in spite of himself as they zipped from their places on the shelves into his waiting hands, to be stacked neatly on the table. If there was one charm he considered himself good at, it was _Accio_-- it had only saved his life during the Tri-Wizard Tournament, after all. So much for needing to practise it.

From his jeans pocket, he pulled the piece of parchment he'd written down his questions on: things he hadn't understood from his own textbook and wanted to see if Snape's library had held any answers to. He turned to the first of the piled books (_Rocks to Ravens: The Inanimate to the Animate_, by Foronius Farthing) and steeled his iron determination and Gryffindor courage.

Time to get to work.

_...These fragments I have shored against my ruins _

_Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe._

_Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. _

_Shantih shantih shantih..._

Severus slowly re-read the last lines of the poem in his mind, his lips moving silently as his eyes traced them on the page. Datta, dayadhvam, damyata. Give, sympathize, control. Peace. Peace. Peace.

His hands closed the book carefully, running over yellowed pages and a tattered paperback cover. This was not one of the volumes covered in rich leather and bound in protective spells that filled the library, but rather a cheap Muggle paperback he had bought in London at the age of fifteen, hardly thinking about it at the time.

Since then it had become one of his favourite books, as its somewhat shabby condition testified. The pages were filled with notes, scrawls, and thoughts in his 'work' handwriting. A reading through of it was nearly always guaranteed to still him, no matter what dark issues and thoughts roiled under the surface.

Now, one poem was enough that he leaned his head back and gazed out at the world through lazily slitted eyes. The eight glass window-walls that surrounded him provided an unobstructed view of late-afternoon sun illuminating the stone of his home, of the towers and battlements and ramparts. He let the feel of the castle seep into him, his eyes drifting shut as he extended his consciousness.

A rich, deep silence-that-was-more-than-silence crept into his bones, the aura of the castle's magics. _Strength, power, haven, welcome, home,_ the stones said. A low bass throbbing, at the edge of perception. Sunlight danced in quick flickers over the stones of the walls and towers, warming and caressing. God. It was so _peaceful..._

Wait one bloody moment. Where was _Potter?_

He scowled and instantly moved out of the leather-upholstered chair to the edge of the landing, peering over. If that boy was out of the castle and engaged in some mischief--

No, there he was on the ground floor, bent quietly and studiously over his books. Actually working. Silently, industriously, diligently applying himself.

Wonders never ceased.

Curious in spite of himself, Severus slowly descended the stairs, taking care to be noiseless. The sight of a Potter truly working at the gathering of knowledge was a memory he wanted to keep for a rainy day.

He made it all the way down without Potter's messy head (_someone really ought to stick a Flattening Charm on that tangle_, he thought grimly) ever once looking up from his work. Severus moved with a stealth developed by eleven years of teaching (and sneaking up on students) to stand a little off to one side, where he could observe the boy.

Potter was intently poring over the tiny text in a thick volume on Transfiguration, his dark brows drawn together in concentration over his vivid green eyes. Lily's eyes, with her ridiculously long lashes also carried over, he noted absently. The boy was chewing on his lower lip in thought, another gesture he must have inherited from his mother.

As Severus watched, the boy exhaled in frustration and reached for one of the other books, looking back and forth between the two as if trying to confirm something. Then he took up his quill and started to write quick notes on his parchment, stopped, checked one of the books again, stopped and chewed on his lower lip some more. A moment's hesitation, then looking something up in yet another of the books, hunting through the pages with the same dedication he showed looking for a bloody Snitch.

He found himself staring. Surely this... this was not... The boy had grown up, somehow. This was no first year, all of eleven years old and filled with unconscious self-righteousness and hypocrisy, glaring at him and already judging. Accusing for a whole bloody year, a year in which he'd been risking his own neck to keep the damned little ingrate safe-- for what thanks?

Certainly not for gratitude, not from this snotty child. A clone of Saint James. A perfect child, beyond reproach, his every infraction written off as boyish high spirits, mischief. A fucking Gryffindor, for whom the world revolved and the sun shone and consequences were discarded.

The plague of his gods-damned existence as a teacher-- determined to throw himself bodily into every intrigue, every hint of danger-- and devil take any attempts by his teachers to pound in caution or discretion. He was _Harry Potter_, thank you very much, he didn't need any help. After all, he had a bloody Invisibility Cloak and a broomstick and Merlin knew what kind of luck-- and he trusted to it, like some sort of moron. Trusted to it enough to throw himself time after time straight into the jaws of the snake.

Such a stupid, selfish child.

And not present here. Not here, not now. This boy... this young man, so focused, so determined, but without the stubbornness and pettiness.... for once, he was looking at a Harry Potter perhaps worthy of the praise he constantly received.

"You know, Potter, if you showed _half_ this effort in Potions class, your marks might not be so utterly abysmal," he said finally, tearing his eyes from that intent face.

Potter started violently, whirling clumsily around to try and see him, and Severus internally shook his head disapprovingly. 

A year now of lessons with Remus Lupin in 'combating the Dark Arts' and this was the state of Potter's reflexes and training. It would be laughable if so much didn't depend on it.

_He won't last thirty seconds in a true combat situation_, Severus mused idly. _Well, it isn't my problem, is it? Albus doesn't want me teaching Defence. Sirius Fucking Black doesn't want me teaching his godson. Harry Potter doesn't _want _more lessons spent with his most hated teacher. _

_And _I _don't _want_ to teach him._

_So there._

_Hunh. Okay, so you _couldn't_ make a silk purse out of a sow's ear-- unless you followed the seventeen rules regarding organic material to organic-based material, and fabric, and--_

"You know, Potter, if you showed _half_ this effort in Potions class, your marks might not be so utterly abysmal."

Harry nearly yelped, startled out of his intense concentration, and whirled to see his professor giving him Look Number Two (The Special-Venom-Reserved-for-Harry-Potter Look).

_How the hell does he _do _that?_ Harry fumed inwardly, thinking of the man's sinister ability to creep up noiselessly on unsuspecting, innocent children. Like Harry himself.

Snape was glaring at him with the expression all too familiar from Potions class, and Harry felt the usual angry defensiveness rise up. He squelched it. He was _not_ going to give Snape the satisfaction.

He really _wasn't._

"I haven't yet _failed_ a Potions class though, sir," he retorted cheerfully, then mentally slapped himself for stupidity. If they had been at school, this was the point where his professor would take off ten points for impudence.

Snape couldn't take points off during summer vacation, could he?

For one moment, Snape's eyes had widened at his insolent little comeback. Now they narrowed, and the Sneer kicked in.

"Thanks _only_, I'm sure, to the interference of Miss Granger. Give me an excuse and I'd be only too happy to rectify your _barely_ passing marks, Potter."

_I _must _have a death wish_, Harry thought to himself, before saying, "You don't ever need excuses to take points off my house, so why bother to find an excuse to fail me?"

For a second, the professor gaped slightly. Harry exulted inwardly. _I just scored! Against Snape! Oh, he's going to kill me._

Snape tilted his head to one side, an eyebrow arched speculatively, then said in a dangerously soft voice, "You know, Potter, one of these days that tongue of yours is going to get you into... serious... _trouble_."

"Oh, I believe you, Professor," Harry said brightly. "But until then, can you let me get back to studying? I don't think Professor McGonagall will let me use 'Professor Snape ate my homework' as an excuse for not having this essay done."

Some part of Harry was wondering just how far he could push Snape. The rest of him was screaming 'stop being such a suicidal idiot!'

His professor did not gape this time. Instead, he merely stared at Harry for a long second, then smiled tightly. Harry felt a chill attack his spine with incredible ferocity.

"Well, I _certainly_ don't want to distract you from your studies, Potter," Snape said in a voice of silky smoothness. "Pardon me," he added politely as he grabbed the Catalogue from next to Harry's elbow. Without another word, he moved to the one of the shelves with it, searching for some book or another.

Harry sat stunned for a minute. Surely he wasn't going to get off that easy?

He wasn't. Snape found some books and moved to the table, directly across from Harry. He set his books down, then pulled out a chair and sat it in it-- making far more noise than Harry knew was necessary, especially for the stealthy, sneaky Potions Master. Then, Snape picked the first book off of his pile (a glance at the spine revealed it was Mortimer Remitrom's _Guide to Palindromical Magick_), and began to read.

Harry was aware he was staring. Snape. Voluntarily sitting at the same table with him?? He continued staring, as Snape unconcernedly read through the whole first page of _Palindromical Magick_, then noisily turned to the next page and continued.

The fingers of Snape's free hand were drumming loudly on the table top. Drum drum drum. The chair Snape was leaning back in was especially creaky. The book, as Snape shifted it on the table's surface, seemed to rasp and groan. Even Snape's breathing seemed unusually noisy.

Harry stared until Snape reached the third page of his book, slow realization and anger growing in his mind. Finally, Snape paused in his reading and looked up. And did the Eyebrow Arch.

"Don't mind me, Potter. ...I'm not _disturbing_ your _studies_, am I? Tell me if I am. I'd _hate_ to inconvenience you," Snape drawled. Harry gritted his teeth to bite back something that really _would_ have gotten him in trouble.

"No, Professor, not at all. But it was kind of you to ask," he ground out with a smile. Snape smirked, and returned his gaze to his book. Harry fumed for a moment, then clenched his jaw in determination and also looked back at his own book. He took up his quill and started to write on the parchment by his side.

_The first of the rules regarding inorganic to organic transfiguration concerns--_

A noisy barking cough disrupted his train of thought, and he paused in his writing, not needing to look up at Snape to see the man's smirk. He took a deep breath, then continued writing.

_...concerns the basic nature of living and non-living matter, and how the components of--_

Snape moved his chair back a few inches from the table, and the screech of the wooden legs across the stone floor nearly made Harry drop his quill. He refused to look up.

..._of each must be fully understood in order to effect a--_

Snape's fingers were still drumming on the table. Harry thought he'd like to break them. Drop one of those nice heavy thick volumes right on them.

_...to effect a proper transfiguration. As stated by Foronius Farthing in his--_

The professor shut his book loudly, set it down on the table none too gently, and selected another from his stack. Harry paused in his writing, glaring from under his eyelashes as Snape opened the particular old and musty volume, then made a great show of coughing at the dust and waving it away. Harry's lips thinned and he bent his head back to his essay.

_...his treatise, Rocks to Ravens so help me God I'm going to kill him--_

Harry forced himself to take a deep breath. This wasn't working. He was going to have to humble himself and admit defeat. He steeled himself to deal with Snape's arrogance, then looked up with a polite smile plastered on his face.

"Professor Snape."

The Eyebrow Arch again. Damn that man. "Yesss, Potter?" Snape said with exaggerated courtesy.

"I'm sorry, but you are actually making a bit of noise. If you like, I can go study on one of the other landings--"

"Oh no, I wouldn't _dream_ of forcing you to move. I'm terribly sorry, I had no idea I was being so loud," Snape said with a smile that was somehow malicious and apologetic at the same time. "I'll be much more quiet from now on."

Harry forced himself to keep up the polite smile. "Thank you, sir."

"Not at all, Potter."

Harry gritted his teeth again and returned to his essay.

Snape was as good as his word. He continued his own reading, completely and totally silent. Harry wasn't sure the man was even breathing. It didn't matter, because overall, he would have preferred the noise to what the man was doing now.

Staring. Constantly. Fixedly. Intently. At him. But every time he looked up to catch the man doing it, Snape had already returned his gaze to his own books. He never actually _saw_ Snape doing it. But he knew it was happening all the same. He could feel those black eyes boring into the top of his skull, just waiting for him to make a mistake... 

He found himself misspelling words three times as frequently as before. Each time he had to use his wand to erase a mistake, he swore his professor was silently laughing at him. He constantly lost his place and had to look back in the books to regain his train of thought.

Harry started to sweat and fidget. As only happens when you are under intense scrutiny, all the unreachable places began to itch, terribly. An itch started on his rear end. An itch started on that one place halfway down the back. An itch started on the top of his head, where Snape's basilisk gaze was fixed. An itch started on the inside of his nose. 

And with the man watching him, he was _not_ going to scratch. He continued to slave over the essay, seething at Snape. This was _ridiculous._ No other professor would pull this sort of shit. Not one of them. Only Snape. How petty could you _get?_

_About as petty as saying 'Snape ate my homework,' _his subconscious retorted. He swatted it forcefully. 

Ack. He'd just written 'Snape ate my homework' on his paper. Twice. Oh, hell. This was _impossible._

He sighed in utter defeat and leaned back in his chair, slamming his own book shut forcefully in what he knew was a little pettiness on his own part. Snape, the bastard, didn't even twitch. Harry rolled his eyes and stood, starting to put the books he'd gotten back in their slots.

"The elves can see to that, Potter," drawled Snape. "Done already?"

"Yes _sir,"_ he ground out, dropping the remaining books into a pile on one of the chairs. He turned back to the table to see... Snape sliding the parchment across the table to look at it. The professor's black eyes flickered up to meet his, wicked amusement dancing in their depths. "Surely you won't mind if I take a look?"

There wasn't much he could say to that, and Snape didn't wait for an answer before perusing the scant three inches of text he had managed to get down before giving up-- the three inches that ended with 'Snape ate my homework.' Twice.

Harry stood there and silently cursed as his professor read the 'essay' with a sardonic little smile on his lips. Harry felt like cursing it off. Damn the man. He watched as the dark eyes scanned the parchment once, then a second time, lingering on the bottom. Finally, he handed the paper back with a languid, indolent gesture. Harry took it quickly, sure his cheeks were burning red.

Snape leaned back in his chair, regarding Harry through half-closed, amused eyes. "I see you still managed to bring in the 'Snape ate my homework' excuse," he purred.

Harry cast about for a ready retort, but the best he could come up with was, "It's a rough draft, sir."

Snape's mouth twitched. "Indeed. Well, carry on, Potter. It's been inspiring to see your dedication to your studies."

The Boy Who Lived took a deep breath... then decided it wasn't worth it. There really was no reason to push his luck.

With one last forced smile for his still-smirking professor, he turned and left the tower.


	11. Ten: We Are the Music Makers And Dreamer...

A Season for Healing

By Dien

Summary and disclaimer in part one.

Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is PG-13.

Notes: Yes, this chapter took me forever to get out. I forbid you all to smite me, or otherwise wound me, because then you'll NEVER get any more, bwa ha ha ha!...

Thanks to those at FictionAlley who helped me think of a good piece of music for Snape.

Thanks to the HP Lexicon for being great reference stuff.

(Continual thanks to) my beta Nyarth; she is fantastically awesome cool. Everyone: GO READ HER STUFF! She's in my Favorite Authors. Go! Go! (but finish this first) 

**Chapter Ten. **_In which Severus (internally) admits his pettiness, plays a piece of music of haunting beauty and poignancy, and receives an owl. And Harry also does stuff._

There was a part of Severus Snape that spent most of its time shutting up and trying not to be noticed. Years of living in a hostile environment had sapped its spirit and given it a taste for the quiet life, where it could exist unmolested by Snape's scorn and contempt. Albus Dumbledore referred to it as a conscience.

Severus preferred to think of it as an inconvenient habit he hadn't managed to break himself of.

But whatever you called it, it was currently disrupting his mood of self-satisfied content with an accusation.

_Now _that_ was a new low of pettiness,_ it said in its calm, annoying voice.

He rolled his eyes and set about sticking Potter's books back in their places on the library's shelves.

**So? Got him to leave, didn't it?**

_Yes. Got him to _quit_ studying and applying himself. _Well-_done, Severus._

He snarled back at it for a moment then dropped sulkily into one of the chairs. Alright, alright, so he'd been a bit childish. But it wasn't as if Potter hadn't _deserved _it.

And besides which, it had been fun. If he was going to deal with the inconvenience of the boy all summer, he was going to get his kicks where he could. Even if the methods used were less than... mature.

The annoying voice of the Conscience (or perhaps this was Logical Thought; on the rare occasions they agreed, they sounded remarkably similar) was still going, with some rational argument about how he really ought to make an effort to be civil since like it or not the boy was here all summer. Snape growled under his breath and picked at a little chip in the table's surface. The dark, polished wood reflected a ghostly image of his own face back at him, which he trained his glare on.

**Potter started it,** he sulked.

The other voice refrained from mentioning how _exactly_ that sounded like a much younger Severus Snape complaining to his Head of House, and instead said, _No, you did. Snuck up on him, remember? _Very _dignified._

**Whose side are you on, anyway?** he groused back with a glare at the reflection. No answer was forthcoming and Severus leaned back with a heavy sigh. Alright. He'd be _civil,_ he thought with a sneer. 

Next time.

For now... he stared at the ceiling unhappily. The benefits of Eliot's poetry had been lost in the confrontation, and it was time for something more potent if he was serious about taking a break from work.

He never summoned it. The chances of the case banging up inadvertently against a hard object as it flew through the air were too great. Now he stood and crossed the library floor to the shelves that held his books on music. The case, and its precious contents, reposed at the end of the third shelf, and he gently lifted it from its niche.

He ran a reverent finger over the smooth old leather of the antique case, breathing in the rich scent with a sigh of contentment. The latches opened easily at his touch, and a stray beam of sunlight from the window stole across the case's crimson silk lining and the beautiful, varnished maple of the violin itself.

Harry was still grumbling to himself as he approached the owlery tower, digging out Hermione's letter from his pocket. Maybe replying to her would get the fact that he was staying the summer with the World's Biggest All-Round Bastard off his mind.

With a quick glance around to make sure Macavity was nowhere in sight, he opened the door to the tower and entered into the feathery chaos. Inside, he looked around for Aluco and saw her staring at him expectantly from one of the perches.

"Yes, I've got a letter for you," he murmured, moving to the drawer with the extra parchment in it. He pulled out a sheet, then reached into his jeans pocket for his quill.

It wasn't there. He blinked and felt his other pocket. There was his wand, but no quill. Had he left it with his "essay" in his room? No, he distinctly remembered his pieces of parchment as being the only things he'd thrown down on his bed.

With an exasperated sigh, Harry realized he must have left it in the library tower. Great.

He scowled fiercely at the nearest bird (the unfortunate blackbird who had endured Macavity's affections the day before) and considered just leaving the quill there. If it had been just any quill, he might have, but this had been a gift from Dean. The feather was actually from an Augurey, and Dean had gone to the trouble of making it into a quill just for him...

Harry sighed. He could use the owlery quills to write to Hermione, but then he'd have to go back into the library and look for it.

A sudden chill ran up his spine at the thought of Snape finding it. It would be just like the bastard to keep it, as if it was some item he'd confiscated during class, and make him ask for it back.

Harry began to write his note to Hermione with a little more violence than was perhaps strictly necessary.

_June 29_

_Hermione--_

_It was great to hear from you. The owl's name is Aluco, and she belongs to Snape. Explains a lot about her personality, doesn't it?_

_Yes, that's who I'm staying with. But don't tell Ron yet; I'm still making him guess for a little bit longer. It's... well, I don't know. It's not as bad as you might think, but it's still not fun. He's such a... He's SNAPE, y'know?_

_Anyways. Yes, Mother, ickle Harry is doing his homework. So leave off._

_I'm not really doing much magic either, so relax._

_Sorry if I sound down, I'm just in a crappy mood at something Snape did. But really, things are going to be okay. Write. Love,_

_                                                                                          --Harry_

He sighed and slipped on the glove before reaching out towards Aluco, who warily stepped onto his finger and allowed him to affix the letter. With a hoot, she took off through one of the windows.

Harry put the quill and ink back in their drawer and left the owlery in the same condition he'd found it. As he walked across the battlement towards the library tower, steeling himself for possible further confrontation with his professor, he caught a glimpse of Fenris sunning himself in the courtyard. Hm, maybe he'd go talk to the wolf once he'd gotten his quill back; or better yet, go find Macavity.

The door from the battlements into the library stood before him. He opened it as quietly as he could, hoping that Snape had maybe returned to his potions and he, Harry, could retrieve his quill without ever being noticed.

He was not prepared for the music.

It washed over him like sea-water, the notes rising up through the cylinder of the library, past the books, up to the windows at the top. The only time Harry had ever heard a violin before was at his old Muggle school, years ago, and the sound of his fellow students scratching away with their bows after five lessons did not compare to _this_ any more than Goyle's grades compared to Hermione's.

He stood transfixed, the rise and fall of the music holding him as surely as a Petrificus spell. The almost-human voice of the instrument, heart-breaking and poignant, seemed to haunt the tower.  **__**

Harry didn't know the tune, but that was insignificant. It was beautiful. He took a step into the tower, as silent as he could, easing the door shut behind him, then another step forward, so he could look over the landing and try and see the source of the music.

An enchanted violin? Or did wizards have the equivalent of records and stereos? He'd never heard of the latter. He looked down, the soft cry of the instrument filling his ears... and froze.

An empty case lay on the table, its red silk lining gleaming like flames. In one of the thin rays of sunlight that slanted down from the library's windows, Snape stood and played the violin.

From his vantage point, Harry could see the long, elegant hand as it deftly moved the bow back and forth, producing _those sounds..._ The reddish-hued wood of the violin disappeared under the edge of Snape's chin, while his black hair brushed against it slightly, halfway obscuring his face.

Even as he watched, Snape shifted slightly with the music, the black strands falling from his face, revealing his expression.

It was the face of a man in concentrated bliss. His professor's eyes were closed, the hard lines of scowls and grimaces erased to be replaced by a softness he'd never seen in the man. The sun that danced slowly over his form seemed to destroy all color and midtones, making him something from a sepia photograph, from another time and world. **__**

Snape's head moved back and forth slightly, his whole body following it, intense absorption and rapture on his face as he performed, unaware he had an audience. The intricate trills and glorious notes came with effortless grace, as if he were not so much playing an instrument as creating music out of the air and his own thought. Harry stood, turned to stone, his mind operating without him.

_Beautiful._ That was all. All it was. The violin, the sunlight, the wood, the player, the music. 

How could a man like that-- a man who you could never consider beautiful-- how could he do it? How could he make something so... pure, so transcendent, so haunting and bloody _beautiful?_

Harry found himself shaking for reasons he couldn't understand, and bit fiercely on his lower lip as the music built to a heart-rending high note, then dropped back... and rose again...

He wanted to divorce the images, to make them separate. Snape didn't have the right to be associated with something so beautiful. But he couldn't do it, even in his own mind-- couldn't make what he heard and what he saw separate and distinct from each other.

Every time he heard a violin from now on, he knew-- every time he even saw one-- regardless of how it was played or who played it or what was played-- he would see Severus Snape, standing in a thin ray of pale gold and delivering the silver notes to his audience of books and dust.

As he stared, Snape once more moved his head and the curtain of his lank dark hair dropped back in front of his face, hiding it once more. And Harry understood that this was _private_, that he had never been meant to see or hear it, and that he couldn't be here when Snape finished and put down the violin and opened his eyes. Slowly, unwilling to tear himself away, he stepped back silently and edged the door open, moving back into the warmth of the afternoon and out of the cylinder of sound.

The world was empty and summer's colors hurt his eyes. Harry walked numbly back to his room, quill forgotten, wishing he was still eleven and Snape was still a monster.

And wishing the violin wouldn't replay itself over and over in his head.

****

****

The last poignant notes of the string part of Chopin's Nocturne for Violin and Piano seemed to hang in the sunlit air of the tower, even after Severus gently set down his instrument. He stood still for a long moment, unwilling to break the peace of the moment by moving.

After a long second, listening to his heartbeat and replaying the music in his mind, he lifted the bow he still held in one hand and loosened the tension of the hairs, to keep them from warping. Then, he took the square of polishing cloth and wiped rosin from the strings and the body of the violin, his touch light and careful.

With a soft sigh of contentment, he slipped the bow and violin back into the case, closing it and snapping the latches shut. He set the case back in its place, then turned back to his library.

He didn't yet feel like going back to work. Something to drink, perhaps, and eat? Maybe some more reading? Or even a walk in the gardens. He hadn't been outside in... too long.

He rang the bell for a house-elf. Dubbin, another one of the far-too-many creatures, appeared and listened obediently to his order for some food and drink to be prepared in the kitchen, then winked out to attend to his request.

Severus looked back quickly into his workshop, just to check on the potion, and, satisfied, turned to leave the library for the kitchen. Something on the floor caught his eye-- he bent and picked up a greenish-black feather.

No, a quill-- and Potter's. He remembered the boy had been writing with it. 

After a second's thought, and remembering his resolution to be 'civil,' he pocketed it. Then, he left the quiet of the library behind for the pleasant bustle of the elf-infested kitchen.

Harry stood on the balcony of his bedroom, leaning his crossed arms on the rail and staring out at the summer colors beneath him. He felt drained. He could be working on rewriting his essay, or doing some more flying, or... something... but what he really wanted was someone to talk to.

Paying wonderful attention to her cues, or perhaps just sensitive to the moods of the humans she shared the castle with, the lynx slunk into the room and let out a soft _miaow._ Harry turned from the window, smiling slightly at Macavity, who stalked over to him and rubbed up against his legs.

"Hey," he murmured, bending down to scratch her behind her ears. "What have you been up to today?"

"Mice. And annoying Fenris," the feline purred, her eyes shutting in pleasure. "You, Hari?"

"Now that would be the life," the young man sighed, sitting down on the floor and letting the lynx butt her face fondly into his chin. "Me... I spent an hour flying, then getting lectured by a ghost about how I'm a stupid Gryffindor, then tried to do some homework-- 'tried' being the operative word-- and getting _really_ annoyed by Snape, and losing a gift I'd been given, and... and listening to..." he trailed off, for some reason reluctant to speak of the violin. The lynx fixed acidic green eyes on him, mute and inscrutable, and he sighed again. "Sorry. I know I'm rambling. It's just..."

"That I'm a good listener," the cat interrupted dryly. "Go on, Hari. Severus used to--"

"I really couldn't care less about what _Severus_ used to do," Harry bit out, standing angrily and stalking back to the balcony. Behind him, he could sense the lynx's quiet lack of comprehension. He exhaled in frustration and ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more than it perpetually was.

After a moment, Macavity said quietly, "I think you should eat something. Sometimes it helps humans who are acting odd to eat something."

"Thanks," he groused, sticking his chin into his hands and glaring at the horizon. After a beat, he added, "It's not you or anything, okay? I'm just getting... confused, I guess. Lots of things happening."

"Part of growing up," Macavity purred at his feet, having moved silently towards him. "Part of leaving being a child behind. The world cannot be the same forever."

_That's for sure,_ he thought unhappily, dropping his hands back to the railing and straightening up. "You're right. I'll feel better after I get something to eat. Come on; let's go to the kitchen."

****

Severus Snape idly scanned the headlines of the _Daily Prophet,_ slightly more annoyed than usual by the banal headlines and usual front-page stories. The latest on Death Eater attacks and the woefully pathetic measures being taken against them was relegated to back pages, and was always glossed over and cleaned up before being presented to the public. But that was always the situation with the _Prophet;_ one had to read between the lines to get anything of interest.

He dropped the paper, delivered by owl-post, into the kitchen's trash and picked up the next in the pile: the _Delphic Oracle_. The Greek Ministry of Magic was far less strict with their press-- but of course, they were hardly waging an open war with Voldemort at the moment either. Yet.

The Greek was not a problem; his mother had had him reading the language by the time he was five. He skimmed the headlines half-heartedly, found a few things interesting enough to merit keeping the paper for another day, and tossed it onto the table.

_Vox Veneficum_ was of somewhat more interest, if only for the fact that most of its funding and staff came from the 'old guard' of extremely conservative pureblood families. It was as close to an official, respectable mouthpiece for Voldemort's cause as you could get. Severus tensed as he skimmed the articles, written in Latin simply because it was another way to show off their snobbery. Grimly, he placed it on top of the _Oracle_ for further reading at a later date.

Last but not least came the _Cry of the Banshee._ Independently published, by a staff whom nobody quite seemed to know who they were or where they operated from (and not for lack of trying, either), the _Cry_ was the one newspaper that owed allegiance to no one, had no regulations, and consequently had the most open and scathing reporting seen anywhere in the wizarding world. It blasted the Ministries (of all countries), it blasted Fudge (and other elected officials), it blasted Voldemort and his cronies, it blasted Gringotts, it blasted everything within blasting range (and a few things out of it; the diatribe ten years ago by its editor against the indecent public exposure of the moon was fondly remembered by many in the wizarding journalism world) and when it ran out of things to blast, its reporters often blasted each other. Rumour was that no two people on staff agreed with each other's political views; and the only thing consistent in any of the columns was a biting wit and a healthy disrespect for sacred cows.

Snape adored it. He (anonymously) contributed a large sum of Galleons every month to help support it and had been an avid reader since the day his father had banned it from the house when he was fourteen. In his opinion it was one of the few voices of independent thought in the wizarding world.**__**

Using one hand to eat the green salad that the kitchen elves had prepared for him, and the other to turn pages, Severus read the current editorial, which was calling for Fudge's immediate resignation, with a malicious smile. The editor, who published under the pen name V. Eritas, was raging against the same covering-up of the facts he'd just noticed in the _Prophet,_ and laying the blame straight at the feet of Cornelius Fudge, whom Eritas referred to as, "that ignoble, ignominious dullard (elected only for the lack of embarrassing detritus in his past [due rather to cowardice than any moral magnitude] which made him seem a paragon of virtue)-- that walking folly, that living blinder on the eyes of Wizarding Britain, discharging his duties with all the grace and finesse of a rampaging Bludger..."

Severus's smile grew slightly and he circled the description with a ray of light from his wand, planning to owl the editor at a later date with something complimentary.

He turned to the last page, where one of his favorite recurring columns resided, and was halfway through it when he heard footsteps coming down the corridor.

Severus looked up with an arched eyebrow, waiting for Harry Potter to appear, and had his expectations fulfilled by the sight of his lodger entering the kitchen. The lynx was by his feet, and Severus arched the eyebrow a bit higher, wondering at how quickly Macavity had taken to Potter. The cat's green eyes met his own with their usual inscrutable expression.**__**

Potter's face had fallen upon seeing him, which Snape was quite used to and in fact encouraged at school, but the boy nonetheless entered warily and sat down, asking the house-elf that bustled up to him for a sandwich. Snape rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the column. Perhaps the boy would simply not speak. That would be nice.

"Vox Populi," the columnist, was arguing for equal rights of squibs. Severus sighed slightly-- Vox had been on this kick for the last three issues, and the points were no longer new or interesting-- and set down the paper on the table top.

Ignoring Potter, who was eating his sandwich at the other end of the table, he returned his attention to his salad and toast. After intense potions work, during which he often forgot to eat unless Wiggin reminded him, it was better to eat light meals until the metabolism readjusted-- otherwise he'd go back to his workshop and likely pass out.

The meal passed in utter silence, each of them ignoring the other, and Severus almost smiled. _This--_ this was tolerable. If only all encounters with the boy for the rest of the summer went thusly...  **__**

Finishing the last bites, he stood and let the ever-present elves grab the dishes away. With the motion, he felt something in one of his pockets-- ah yes, Potter's quill. He pulled it from the pocket and tossed it to Potter's end of the table.

"You left this. In the tower," he said curtly.

The boy blinked, stared at it where it lay on the table, and looked up with something unidentifiable in his green eyes. "Thank you," he murmured.

Severus gave a half-shrug in reply, not feeling like forcing out an actual "you're welcome." Besides, he had work to do... the salad had reminded him of some algae he wanted to try adding to the potion. He turned and headed for the door back to the courtyard, currently standing open to let in the summer air.

A black blur shot past his head, squawking frantically as it went. "Severus-- Caperian's here-- is the owlery shut-- hide--"

"What? Poe, come back here-- Poe!" he snarled in exasperation as the raven disappeared into the house proper. Potter was standing in surprise, looking after the bird, but Snape looked back towards the door in time to see a large snowy white owl swoop through the doorway and land, with much chaos of her formidable wings, on the back of the chair he'd just vacated.****

With a shrill screech, the large owl fixed him with a fierce and sulfurous yellow gaze that reminded him, for some reason, of Madam Hooch, and beat her wings some more. As this particular owl had a five-foot wingspan, this was not something to be taken lightly, and Snape swore as the newspapers he'd had on the table flew off the scatter on the floor.

The owl didn't care, looking around the kitchen hungrily, and Severus knew that if he wanted any chance of getting the letter clutched in her talons away from her he was going to have to feed her. He snarled under his breath-- damn Caperian, and damn Siobhan for keeping, let alone using, such an abominable creature-- while looking around the kitchen for some food.

The house-elves had all fled the instant Poe's warning had been heard, and only Potter and Macavity were left, the lynx glaring at the owl with a mixture of terror and hatred, the boy staring in awe at the bird. Severus's eyes trained on the boy's half-eaten chicken sandwich, and he reached a hand across the table to the plate, quickly flipping the contents at the bird.

With a snap of her beak, the owl snatched the morsels of food from the air and gulped them down. Her claws opened up and dropped the rather tattered parchment to the floor. Without so much as a civil word, the huge owl turned and winged her way back out through the door. 

Severus sighed, looked around the chaos of the kitchen, and picked up the letter from the floor. Around him, the house-elves started to re-appear, panic fading from their faces as they started to clean up the mess. 

Potter looked a bit shell-shocked. Severus ignored it in favor of uncrumpling the message.

His sister's familiar scrawl, nearly as nasty as his own, read:

_June 29 2002_

_Dearest Severus--_

_Things with the Gorgeous Young Idiot did not work out-- will explain more when I arrive. So I am coming home for the rest of summer hols. Hope this is not a problem. Expect me not later than the eighth of next month. Remain yours,_

Siobhan 

_PS. Do you know of anyone needing a Potions Mistress, hah hah? I know you've got Hogwarts, but I could use a job. Will also explain this when I arrive. Love. S._

"Oh Lord," he muttered under his breath. "She's managed to get herself fired..."

Re-crumpling the letter, he turned towards the door Poe had disappeared through and yelled for the raven. After a long second, the bird stuck his head around the edge of the door.

"Is she gone?"

"Yes, for the moment. Get in here. Now listen-- I don't know how long Caperian's planning on flying around our home, but until she leaves, _you're_ responsible for keeping her out of the owlery. Last time we lost two sparrows and a sand owl, and I--"

"Oh please, Severus, not _me!_ Caperian's going to eat me alive! Literally!"

"You'll manage. Talk to her. There's a reasonable bird buried somewhere in there-- or there was before my sister adopted her as familiar and took her off to Durmstrang..."

"Ha! So you think! Caperian came out of the _egg_ with psychotic tendencies! Maybe you and Mac and Fenris didn't notice, but as the other bird, I grew _up_ with that-- that-- barbarian-- and I tell you, she's _not sane!"_

Severus sighed. "Look, just keep her from eating anyone else, all right? Enlist the house-elves if you need to."

"Please. They hide when they see her coming."

"Then enlist Wiggin."

The raven fixed him with a reproachful stare, but Severus merely looked back at him coolly until the bird heaved a melancholy sigh. "Alright. Alright. I'll just go make out my will now... farewell, cruel world... goodbye, Macavity, goodbye Severus, goodbye Harry Potter, goodbye kitchen-elves, goodb--"

"Poe. _Go,"_ Severus exhaled tersely, and with one last reproving squawk, the raven launched himself through the kitchen and out through the door. Severus yelled after him, "And then tell everyone Siobhan's going to be home in a week or so!"

"Great, just great..." the raven could be heard to mutter as he flew away.

Severus threw a glance at Harry Potter, still standing rather dumbstruck in the middle of the kitchen, and felt a vague sensation of pity. "My apologies for using your sandwich. I'm sure the elves will be happy to make you another. Excuse me, Potter..."

He brushed by the boy and headed into the house proper. There would be an owl-- several owls-- to write... and in any case he was now completely ruined for any work for the rest of the day.

Well, well. Siobhan was going to be home for the summer. His sister... and Harry Potter... in close proximity. 

Severus sighed and decided he needed to work on some better headache potions.**__**


	12. Eleven: Correspondence and Family Trivia

A Season for Healing

By Dien

Summary and disclaimer in part one.

Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is PG-13.

(rather long) Notes: Hm. Several people pointed out that the title of last chapter came from a poem by O'Shaugnessy, for which I'm indebted to their greater cultural knowledge. Thank yew. *bows*

LadyRhiyana-- will be answered.

Lia Santana-- nice speculation as regards James.... it is, as far as I know, completely unfounded. But I'll be sure to ask Severus.

Agar-- I confess, all my knowledge of the instrument and proper care thereof comes from reading on the 'Net. I'm not that talented, sigh... 

Anyone who's asked about Siobhan-- more will be revealed as the story creeps along. She won't actually _appear_ for a bit yet.

Snape's Evil Twin: You ask me for something contradictory! *grins* You say Harry ought to stop stuttering, then ask for evidences of his mental disturbance... I'd say the stuttering _could_ be construed as that evidence. But perhaps not. In any case, thank you for a thoughtful and critical review. :)

Dylan-- thanks for your continual lovely and thoughtful revs! You have definitely picked up on some things I've been hoping people would get. *grins in utter delight*

Jlightstar: Forgot to answer it when you asked, but yes, I suppose I *could* be referring to Gaiman's Death. I'm certainly a huge fan of hers. :D

And EVERYONE ELSE-- just because I don't mention you don't mean a thing! I read every review I get and am astonished by the feedback this continues to produce. Thank you all for being such a great readership. (...is that a word...?)

Hmm... we have here the first mention of Severus's office and The Desk (don't worry; it will merit those capitals at a later date...) that appears, however briefly, in "Off-Season." (If you don't know what Off-Season is, you need to go join the Yahoo! Group and read it. NC-17, so I can't post it here.) Just so you know.

Confession: I read a trashy romance novel. I did! It's called "Say You Love Me," and it's by Johanna Lindsey. I mention it because I think I owe a bit of Petra Snape to Lady Langton, she-who-shoots-her-husband-out-the-window, though in his case it's for wasting the family fortune and not for cheating. Ta!

Thanks to HP Lexicon for reference stuff.

(Continual thanks to) my beta Nyarth; she is fantastically awesome cool. Everyone: GO READ HER STUFF! She's in my Favorite Authors. Go! Go! (but finish this first) 

**Chapter Eleven. **_In which owl posts are written and we learn about the origin of the animals, as well as a wee bit of Severus's family history._

Harry leaned back in his chair, fingering the quill Snape had returned to him. In the background, the elves quietly made another sandwich, which they had started to do even before he asked.

It was occurring to him that perhaps the best way to go through this summer would be to just wipe the existence of any pre-conceptions of Snape and start over, as if he'd never met the man. As if he _didn't _already have the experience of six years of the worst teacher he'd ever had.

Start over. Just forget Professor Snape and start over with Severus Snape. 

Because there was just _no way_ certain things he saw in the man's behaviour could be reconciled with his professor. For instance: Snape had just apologized to him. An apology. From Snape.

His mind ran again over the scene he had just witnessed, a smile playing on his lips as he remembered the way Snape had flung his sandwich to the owl. It had suggested a _lot _of practice.

Strange owl, too. Harry admitted it wasn't one he'd have wanted to deal with-- the thing had looked deranged. If this was the sort of owl that Snape's sister kept... eh.

"Hey Macavity."

"Yes Hari," rasped the lynx, who was still looking forbiddingly towards the door the owl had first come through.

"What's Snape's sister like?"

He hadn't thought it was possible for cats to shrug, but Macavity was not bound by laws of the possible and impossible, so she shrugged. "She is... louder than Severus," the cat said after a moment's thought.

"...louder?"

"It means more loud."

"I _know_ what it means, I-- sigh...." Harry leaned forward, resting his hands on his chin. Another chicken sandwich was thrust under his nose, and he muttered his thanks before taking a bite.

He noticed the newspapers Snape had been reading still lying on the table, and out of idle curiosity picked the first one up. A bold title proclaimed it was the _Cry of the Banshee. _Harry thought he'd remembered Bill Weasley reading it once, on one of the occasions they'd been visiting the Burrow at the same time.

Absently, he started to read through the front page, temporarily forgetting the many incongruities of Snape.

****

_29 June 2002_

_My dearest sister:_

_I reluctantly admit your letter has made me curious. I'm now actually interested in having you home and hearing all the details which you have, in your usual irritating fashion, only hinted at. By the by, we have a guest for the summer... you may have heard of him... details when you arrive, as I am pressed for time._

I remain your devoted elder brother,

_                                                            -Severus _

_29 June 2002_

Headmaster:

_I received an owl from Siobhan today that I believe infers she has lost her position at Durmstrang. She is currently looking for work; do you perhaps know of any place she might find employment suitable of her talents and skills?_

_Things with my guest are going as well as can be expected._

_-Faithfully,_

_Severus Snape_

Severus sighed as he set down his quill. He rolled both pieces of parchment up tightly and rummaged in the desk drawers for a stick of wax. A spoken word lit the flame, and the dark green wax dripped down onto the first of the letters. He carefully pressed the family seal into the liquid wax, feeling the tingle in his fingertips as protective magic flowed from metal stamp into wax. He whispered Dumbledore's name as the wax hardened, ensuring that the Headmaster would be the only one to open or read the letter. Not that there was anything _truly_ dangerous in this letter (if there had been he would never have trusted it to the post); but habits die hard.

There were, of course, other ways to seal a letter than using the rather pompous family seal, but most of them were time-consuming. Severus had to admit that whichever ancestor of his had designed this seal had certainly known what he was doing; it only took a few seconds to protect any message one might want protected.

The process was repeated with the letter to his sister. He was not fool enough to put Harry Potter's name down anywhere on paper; and the phrase "pressed for time" would let Siobhan know that the identity of the guest was delicate information he didn't want to risk in a letter. The two had evolved a complicated and private system of watchwords over the years of their very Slytherin existences, and if Severus gave any thought to using a code-phrase, it was only to imagine, with slight amusement, Siobhan's reaction.

With the letters in hand, Snape set the wax, seals, and other detritus back in the drawers of the huge oaken desk, then sighed as he leaned back in the chair.

The office had been his father's, and his father's before him; he had never felt comfortable in it. The workshop, even though inherited from his mother, was intensely _his_; he knew it and loved it and had left his own mark on the space. But the study-- too formal, too ostentatious, too _Snape._ He pursed his lips in a slight frown as his black eyes roamed around the bookshelves and cabinets, past the tapestry with the coat of arms (worked in black, green, and gold), over all the things that reminded him of his own father.

Summanus Snape was dead-- very dead-- and had been for years. Severus knew this intellectually; it didn't stop him from half-expecting his father to enter the door and say in his voice that felt like the North Wind, "Explain your presence, boy." 

Still, the office was _his_ now, and no echo of a ghost would keep him from using it. 

Or so he told himself, resolutely. To prove it, he spent a good five minutes longer in the study than was strictly necessary, before leaving to take the letters to the Owlery.

_"That son of yours has only one motive for everything he does-- spite. A spiteful, malicious viper. You should be _so_ proud, Summanus..."_

****

Surprisingly, Caperian gave him no trouble when he tried to get her to take the letter destined for Siobhan. If he didn't know better, he'd say the bird was actually happy to see him.

Strix was eagerly flapping around his head, looking pleased to have an errand to run, and Severus rolled his eyes briefly before handing her the letter for Dumbledore. A quick glance around the owlery showed Aluco was nowhere in sight. Snape frowned slightly, then remembered that he'd told Potter he could use the owls. Wonderful-- no doubt Aluco was being pressed into service to carry the latest issue of _Quidditch Quarterly_, or something equally infantile.

Poe landed on his shoulder as he turned to leave the owlery. "She's gone. Thank almighty Audubon."

Severus smirked a bit. "I see you're still alive. Most impressive."

If birds can show annoyance with a shake of a wing, then that is what Poe did, muttering as he did so. Snape smiled and brought a hand up to stroke the raven's glossy feathers as an apology.

The bird on his shoulder, Severus made his way along the battlements back to the library tower. There was still work to do. Always and forever work, that panacea... 

The late afternoon sun was washing over the walls, transfiguring dark stone into red sandstone for a moment, and despite the fact that the workroom beckoned, Severus paused to admire the view.

He loved his home; the rambling mess of it, the safety and sanctity of its strong walls, the fortress it represented against the hostile outside world. The fact that it was also a literal fortress was another example of the divine taste for irony he'd learned to appreciate at a young age.

He ought, he mused, to be more indignant that Potter was invading his house for the summer. After all, the child that made his days (and frequently nights) such a living hell three-quarters of the year, at that _other_ fortress, had no right to rob him of this refuge as well.

Yet he, Severus Snape, had actually offered-- _offered!--_ his home to the Menace for the summer, he reflected sourly. It was, he supposed, a mixture of resignation and an attempt to preserve dignity... because gods knew that Albus Dumbledore would have gleefully suggested it otherwise. ("I have it, Severus! Why doesn't he just stay with _you,_ for the summer? It's only a few months, I can think of no safer place for him in all England than Brennigan, you don't actually _mind, _do you, et cetera, et cetera...")

Snape's lip twisted at the thought of what the Headmaster would have said. Yes, that was why he had taken the initiative himself-- to rob Albus of the pleasure the old fiend would have taken in doing so.

_Sadistic old bugger,_ thought Severus, not for the first time. _Sadistic, manipulative, Slytherin devil._

Snape sighed. Two days down so far. Two.

It was the first time since he'd started teaching that he could remember _wanting_ summer to go by quickly.

****

Harry read the last page of the newspaper, feeling his eyebrows stuck to his hairline, more or less, and wondering whether it was safe to laugh. He hadn't known the wizarding world had an equivalent of _Private Eye._****

He also hadn't known, or even remotely guessed, that it would be the kind of thing Snape would read. Or appreciate. ...Well, actually... alright, he'd always taken it as a given the man was a humorless dour git. But if he _did_ have a sense of humour (heaven forbid) then this _was_ the sort it would be. Vicious and nasty. 

But then, the ideas: they were, well, _far_ more liberal than he'd ever thought Snape capable of entertaining in his greasy head. Slytherins, especially Slytherins like Snapes and Malfoys, were biased, pureblood old guard. Though Harry had known since the aftermath of the Tri-Wizard Tournament that Snape was on _their_ side, he'd always come across as condescending and unpleasant to Muggles and Muggle-borns. Certainly his attitude towards _Hermione_ had never been even remotely supportive or encouraging.

And yet... Harry frowned, his brows furrowing in concentration. There was the paper he'd just read. There was the matter of the Muggle paintings hanging up throughout the house. There had been, if he recalled correctly, Muggle books in the vast inventory of the library tower.

The boy rolled his eyes. Figuring out Snape was like figuring out Arithmancy equations-- headache inducing, and not much visible point to it.

"Feeling better, Hari?"

He shrugged in response to the lynx's question. "I guess. Hey," he held up the _Banshee,_ "does Snape read this a lot?"

The cat's green eyes blinked and focused on the paper. "Yes. One of his favorites of the tiny print papers. He always reads it. Why?"

"No reason." Harry set the paper back down on the table and pushed his chair back, standing. He thanked Nezzy and the other kitchen-elves for the lunch, then made a thoughtful way out into the courtyard, Macavity trailing in his wake.

The sun was shining brightly, the flagstones beneath their feet warm and pleasant. The boy and the lynx sat down on the steps by the kitchen door and mutually enjoyed the afternoon sunshine, content to sprawl in lazy silence.

Harry closed his eyes and leaned back against the sun-warmed wall, the pleasant sounds of summer filtering into his consciousness. The dragon-headed fountain on the other side of the courtyard gurgled idly away. A slight breeze picked up from somewhere, moving through the open arches in the walls and ruffling Harry's hair and Macavity's ginger fur.

The half-doze Harry started to slide into was broken by the faint sound of a door slamming, somewhere above them. Two pairs of green eyes, one human, one feline, opened lazily to watch Snape stalking along the top of the farther battlement towards the owlery tower. 

"He should slow down and appreciate summer," yrraallawned the lynx. Harry nodded in agreement. How *yawn* anyone could be in a *yawn* hurry on such a day...

Snape disappeared inside the tower and the late June silence descended on the courtyard once more. It was a few more moments before one of the turret windows of the owlery opened and the large white owl, Caperian, streaked out and circled briefly around the tower, before heading off in a north-easterly direction. Macavity hissed idly.

"What's the story with that owl?" Harry asked idly, one hand flopping lazily over to scratch between the lynx's ears.

"Like the birdbrain said. Caperian is psychotic," rumbled the lynx, rolling over so that Harry could scratch her belly as well. "She turned out the worst of all of us. I am the best, obviously."

"Sorry, best of what?" Harry murmured, brain held captive by summer.

"Us. The menagerie. One of the results of Petra Snape's experiments."

"...who?" Harry muttered again, finally opening his eyes as if it would help him think. The cat rolled her own eyes. "Severus's _mother._ Lady Brennigan. The madwoman. You know. Petra Snape."

Harry finally sat all the way up and confessed that no, he didn't know, was he supposed to?

Macavity blinked at him sleepily and twitched the tip of her tail. "I thought all the humans had heard of Petra. And Summanus. They were in the papers that Severus reads all the time, the tiny print ones."

Harry exhaled to control his frustration. "Who's Sum-- you're talking about the newspapers, right?"

"News papers. Yes."

"And they were in the news?"

The lynx nodded, unblinking, and Harry thought. He hadn't seen any mention of a Petra or Summanus Snape in the papers, ever; and with the insular community of Hogwarts, any gossip pertaining to Snape would, he was sure, have been talked about to no end. "Macavity... when, exactly, was this?"

A feline shrug, as Macavity licked a paw. "Winter. I think. Severus was... mm. Seventeen. Yes. I _hate_ thinking in years..."

Harry rolled his eyes. Well, _that_ explained why he didn't know anything about it, then... "Okay. So they were in the papers, what, twenty years ago? For what?"

"It was--" Macavity suddenly broke off, avidly watching a cricket make its way across the flagstones before them, then blinked and resumed, "a very big sandal. No. Wait. Sandal is a shoe. ... I can't remember the word, Hari."

"Scandal?" Harry supplied helpfully, and the lynx nodded. "Yes. Scandal. Petra killed Summanus, and then they took her off to a white building. An empty place. None of us can feel her anymore. I miss her. Though she was mad. 'Us' is the menagerie, and--"

"Okay, then, who was Summanus?"

"Severus's father."

"... let me get this straight. Sever--Snape's _mother_ killed Snape's _father?"_

"Yes, yes. But as I was saying, the menagerie, that's the five of us, we are Petra's creation. One of them, that is."

Harry remembered to close his mouth. Alright, now _that_ was just a bit kooky. At least _his _parents had been killed by an outside force...

"...why?" he managed after a second.

"Because she wanted to cross traits of animals and humans. To see if it could be done."

"No-- why did she kill him?" he asked, rolling his eyes. Tenacious creature.

Mac blinked. "Oh. She was angry with him. He mated with someone else, a younger female, and Petra got upset and pushed him out a window. ...It took very little to make her upset," the cat tacked on nostalgically. Harry shook his head.

"Must be where he gets his temper from," he muttered. "Okay... so Snape's father was cheating on this Petra, so she shoved him out a window... then, what, she got taken off to St. Mungo's?"

"I believe that is the name of the building, yes. You're not interested in hearing about the five of us, are you?"

"What? No, of course I'm interested, I just--"

"You are not letting me talk about it. You want to hear about other things."

"But this is so--"

"You humans are all so very strange. You can't make up your minds about what you want."

"Now wait just a--"

"I'm going to go to sleep now." And with that, the lynx stretched out on the stone once more and promptly closed her eyes.

"Macavity... Mac! Come on, stop it. I really do want to know all about Petra and the menagerie. Really."

The lynx was silent. 

"Oh _come on..._ you're acting as petty as Snape, you know that? Come on, Mac. ...I won't give you any milk tonight if you don't tell me," Harry threatened. The tip of a ginger tail twitched once.

"I'll have the elves bring you fish..." he said, switching to bribery. Finally, the feline eye opened again.

"Alright. But no interrupting, Hari."

"Promise."

"Petra was a... like Severus. She worked in the Off-Limits Room, with the stinking liquids and the heat and dead lizard entrails and things."

Harry kept his laugh internal at the best description of potions work he'd ever heard.

"She also worked with lots of plants. And animals. Verry... inquiring of mind. She was always doing her _experiments_. Petra had a familiar, an occamy, that was very attractive but as 'approximately intelligent as a rock.' So she decided to try intelligence enhancing potions on it, and it went from there, or so the story goes. She bred creatures and altered their genetics with potions and spells. The five of us were the best results, after years of work; we have extended lifespans, are ex_treme_ly intelligent, and are capable of your speech."

(Macavity purred, not-at-all modestly, as she said this.)

Harry mulled that over, then asked, "Who's the fifth of you, then? If Caperian's the fourth..."

"Dolophion. The snake. I have no idea where he is, you'd have to ask Severus. He took him to school and we haven't seen him since."

He filed the fact away for future reference, not bothering to ask when Macavity might be referring to because the cat-logic was already giving him a headache. Harry dropped back onto the steps and surrendered his brain once more to the insidious grasp of summer.

****

Ow. Ow. _Owwww._

_Let that_, Harry thought sourly as he gingerly sat up, _be a lesson to me to never fall asleep on hard stone steps. Ow._

He cautiously turned his neck, wincing at the multiple cricks and sore spots in his back and spine, and shot a venomous glare at the still dozing cat. Not that it was Macavity's fault, but her much smaller form managed to lie on just _one_ stair, and thus was not as bent out of shape as his own protesting body was. _Ow._

Harry shivered slightly. The air had gotten considerably cooler and the light was far less bright and summery. A glance at his watch showed it was after eight.

He leaned forward and rubbed his arms a bit, looking across the courtyard to the library tower. The dragon fountain still burbled to itself, the water sounds drifting through the air and making him thirsty. He stood, stretched, and headed inside to get a drink from the kitchen. Macavity could follow or not, whenever she woke up.

The kitchen was the usual bustle of a small battalion of house-elves, their exact number in uncountable flux. It took two repeated statements that he wasn't hungry right then, and only wanted a drink of water maybe, to get the end results of a plate of cookies, a glass of milk, and another plate of sliced fresh fruit. Harry sighed and gave up the battle, balancing the plates and glass as he exited and made his way up towards his room.

The house-elves at Hogwarts were good at going unnoticed, save in the kitchen where the confined area and conglomeration of elves made them very visible, and it was much the same here at the manor house. Harry began to notice the huge emptiness and silence of the house. He passed the open arch of a stairwell that headed down into darkness, and shuddered slightly at the chill that encompassed him. Of course it was only cold air from the cellars, but still.....

_What a place to grow up,_ he mused again as he started climbing the spiral staircase that was the best way to get up to the next floor. One of the landings housed a balefully glaring statue of Stheno, a hundred snakes writhing on her head, and statue or not, it was compelling enough to make you want to keep right on climbing.

An immense empty old mausoleum of a house, at least in the dark... Hogwarts certainly scored over Brennigan in one respect, he thought as he reached his floor. It had _people, _tons of moving, living students and teachers. It had Ron and Hermione and Dean, Neville, Seamus...

Macavity's companionship might be welcome, he thought sadly as he opened the door to his room (in the process managing a feat of juggling that really ought to have been recorded), but it wasn't a substitute for the friends of six years of school.

He set the plates down and walked to the balcony, preparing to shut the doors against the coming cool of the evening. The sunset had started while he'd made the trip up to his room, and he spent a wistful moment watching the beautiful red hues and wondering if the nearest and dearest people in his world were watching it too. Then, he stepped back inside and closed the doors, the curtains falling lightly in front of the view.

Harry took the first bite of his cookies and reminded himself of one important fact: it was infinitely better than Privet Drive.


	13. Twelve: See Snape, See Snape Froth

A Season for Healing

By Dien

Summary and disclaimer in part one.

Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is R for language

Notes: 

Icarus-- job going well. Thanks for the compliments on descrip! :) I shall remain mum for now on connexions between DE-ness and Dad-death. Mostly cuz I don't yet know.

Dylan, thank you thank you for another lovely review. You make me all tingly. *big grin*

Those who asked about Dolophion-- there is a remote possiblity he'll show up. It depends on whether or not he's still alive, or whether nasty things in the Forbidden Forest have proved too much for the poor fellow.

Sick and Twisted Barbie Girl (nice handle :P): http:// groups. yahoo. com/ group/ seasonofhealing/ Delete the spaces in that URL (DAMN FF.N) and you should have the link. :D

Thanks to Kez, De Severa, and all my other very faithful and lovely reviewers who provide impetus for continuation. *big hugs*

Pencil, Switchknife, and other who pointed out errors before my beta had a chance to... heh.. I mean, thanks. Yes, I'm actually happy. Really. Really...! ;)

(Continual thanks to) my beta Nyarth; she is fantastically awesome cool. Everyone: GO READ HER STUFF! She's in my Favorite Authors. Go! Go! (but finish this first) 

**Chapter Twelve. **_In which Severus appears to take out a nervous breakdown on Harry_

Harry woke late, to Wiggin's disapproving and pained look, as well as the delicious breakfast the elf had brought with him. Macavity was nowhere to be seen.

He asked Wiggin to leave the food for him, as he felt in need of a quick morning shower. The night had been free of Voldedreams, but it _had_ featured a rather interesting dream that had involved Dean and, for some strange reason, Professor Dumbledore's desk. Thankfully the Headmaster had had the good grace, in dream, to refrain from entering his office while the two had been otherwise occupied.

Harry emerged from the shower, toweling his hair dry, and sat down to breakfast. As he ate, he reflected that he couldn't remember having such an appetite, ever, at Privet Drive.

"Well, that's what fresh air, decent food, and a lack of Vernon Dursley will do for you," he sagely advised himself, then felt stupid for talking to an empty room as well as vaguely ashamed for reasons he couldn't put into words.

Harry leaned back in his chair, glass of orange juice in his hand, and creased his brow with thoughts of his relations.

It was... strange, to be a summer away from them. As he thought about it, he contrasted the breakfast he'd just enjoyed with the meals he'd received from his family during other summers and his younger childhood days. The difference wasn't so much in the quantity nor quality of food, but in the attitude of those giving it. He couldn't recall sitting down to dinner with the Dursleys without the sensation that they begrudged him even his food.

His food? Hell, they'd begrudged him his whole existence. He shook his head minutely. No matter what he'd done trying to be inconspicuous to them, it had never been enough. Nothing would be _enough,_ no matter how many years you tried to do what people told you to do and tried to live up to what they wanted from you and tried to learn what they told you and tried to fight who they told  you to. Harry slammed his glass down on the table, then instantly winced at the spilled orange juice and used his napkin to wipe it up.

Well. Who cared. There were the elves to do that after all. It was summertime. He was going to fly.

****

Instead of bothering to go through the miles of corridors to the battlements, he took off from his room's balcony, and wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. The first order of the day was just going straight up, getting some altitude and a view of the countryside. Despite the flying he'd done yesterday, he hadn't really taken the chance to look around much and did so now, hitting a level about two hundred feet above the top of the tower and hovering. Hogwarts had limits on how high you could fly, but Brennigan didn't.

The castle was below him; the uneven pentagon of the manor, the battlements, and the towers looking almost like a toy version of itself. Almost immediately to the south and east of the buildings, the trees started; thick greenery that looked like broccoli flowerets from up here. He thought he could pick out the thread of the road he and Snape had walked to get to the house, and followed it with his eye until he could see the gate, some distance away, and the Muggle blacktop road beyond. Wiggin had mentioned that there were of course a multitude of charms keeping the Muggles from perceiving in any way the fact that there was a full scale castle less than a mile from one of their roadways.

On the eastern side of the castle were the gardens he and Macavity had partly explored his first day. From above, he could appreciate the fact that there had been an initial design to their layout, the paving stones and walled areas making curving and-- _of course,_ he sighed-- snake-like paths. But when he and Macavity had explored, he recalled that much of the stonework had been crumbling; many of the flagstones had been overgrown; more of the fountains had been stagnant than not. 

That was odd, he realized, very odd when house-elf magic should be able to prevent that or fix it in an instant. He pondered the dilemma for a second, thought to ask Wiggin about it.

_No, wait; he'll give us the "pained" expression. Best to ask Macavity instead..._ Harry turned his broom more to the north, noting for the first time a mill-pond or fish-pond or something of that nature a small distance away from the house. The ground near it looked very green and pleasant, and he thought he could see another bit of stone, a roof or something, between the green bulk of a few more trees that grew close together. Outlying building of some sort? It was added to the list of things to investigate. 

Finally he turned his broom all the way to the north, grimacing at the view. The trees of the south and west had been nice; the gardens were fantastic if decaying, the pond was interesting.... the moors were just plain ugly.

Bare and bleak and empty of anything. Everywhere else bore the human touch, as generations of Snapes had turned this piece of the moors into something habitable, but north... Harry wrinkled his nose. It's not like it was even an attractive color for ground to be. Just purpley-gray-brownish-blah. _One big bruise of the earth... probably Snape's favourite part of the estate!_

Harry snickered to himself, his aerial survey of the grounds complete. He pulled a few loops in the air just because he could, feeling the breeze keenly through his thin t-shirt and not minding it a bit.

Heights were his spaces, after all. He'd always felt comfortable up there, with the added freedom of an extra dimension of movement. The wind seemed to whisper secrets to him, speaking of which way to move, which currents to drift on...

"This has to be the most naturally perfect place for flying in England," Harry muttered to himself before pulling into a steep dive for the courtyard. The wind screamed past his ears as the very solid-looking stones rushed up ever closer. At the last possible second, he leveled out, skimming a mere two feet above the flagstones and flashing through one of the courtyard's open arches with a yell of exhilaration and adrenaline.

"WHAT THE FUCKING HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE BLOODY WELL DOING?!?!?!?!"

Harry wheeled the broom around to see Snape standing on the battlement he'd just flown under, apoplectic with rage. One hand was gesturing violently with a wand in such a manner that Harry felt nervously he might have to duck an Avada, but the next moment, the outraged voice yelled a charm he wasn't familiar with, and Harry felt both himself and his broom being drawn inexorably towards the shouting Snape.

Bloody _fantastic. _What had he done now? Harry steeled himself for a Snape tirade, even as invisible binds of magic dragged him thither. As he got closer, his sometime professor's rant started to make itself into words.

"_....bloody idiotic imbecilic Gryffindor prick, you moronic little dunderhead Potter-brained little tosser, you, you, stupid child, idiotic, I ought to blast you straight to London, what in Circe's name did you think you were DOING?" _snarled Snape in a more out-of-control voice than Harry'd ever heard from him before, even during the "incident" at the Shrieking Shack. Close enough now to see that the man was indeed white with rage, and aside from that looked terrible. Not that Snape ever looked good, exactly; but this was the whole nine yards: bloodshot eyes, hair a greasy mussed tangle, hands clenching and unclenching spasmodically on the stone balustrade in front of him, his work clothes a stained and rumpled mess.

Harry and his broom were, at a gesture from the wand hand, dumped unceremoniously onto the stones at Snape's feet, and Harry barely had time to process that before a hand grabbed at his collar and hauled him none-too-gently to his feet.

"You. Idiot boy. What. When. When I said you could fly. I did not-- what the fuck, then? Did your bloody broomstick break in mid-air? That had _best_ be the reason for that little fall from grace, boy! You stupid brat!"

With an effort, and more freaked out by Snape's behavior and incoherency than anything else he'd seen this summer, Harry wrenched out of Snape's grasp, wiped a fleck of spittle from his cheek, and backed slowly away.

"Sir-- Professor-- I think you need to calm down--"

"DON'T YOU PRESUME TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO, POTTER!" roared Snape, a furious tic at work in his right cheek. "Calm down, he says, calm down, why you insignificant beetle, you, you, Gryffindor, what in fuck's name was the cause of that?!"

"Cause of what?" Harry nearly yelled back, but remembered himself and kept it to a loud conversational tone.

"Cause of-- IF YOU PLAY INSOLENT WITH ME, POTTER, REST ASSURED I **WILL** SKIN YOU ALIVE AND FRY YOUR INTESTINES OVER A SLOW FIRE," Snape yelled, or meant to yell, but the effect was entirely ruined by the fact that his voice broke on 'alive.'

Harry stared. _Don't laugh, Harry, don't laugh, he'll kill you here and now if you laugh. For God's sake don't laugh._

Snape twitched, all over, but mostly his wand hand, and took several deep breaths, closing his eyes. After about ten seconds of silence, the courtyard deadly still (Harry thought the birds were probably holding their breath), Snape opened his bloodshot eyes and glared at him.

"The. Fall. What was the reason for that," he hissed through his gritted teeth.

Harry exhaled slowly, then enunciated his words with a precision to match Snape's. "I. Didn't. Fall. That was a _dive."_

Snape's eyes positively bulged. "You, you _did that on **purpose**?!?!!"_

"Yes," Harry said slowly. "In Quidditch, we do it all the time..."

The man in front of him abruptly turned and stalked away, without further explanation or word unless one counted the long string of blistering and incoherent oaths and profanities that tumbled from his mouth. Harry listened with wide eyes to things that would have gotten any student at Hogwarts detention. Snape had, uh, quite a vocabulary... too bad he didn't have anything to take notes with...

About ten paces away, Snape stopped, wheeled back, and stomped back over to Harry, snatching the broom from his hands.

"No more flying," he snarled and once more turned and walked away, heading off to the castle proper. Harry felt his jaw drop open in protest, and started to work on the words to demand his broom back, but Snape was walking fast and by the time he marshaled his indignant outrage, the man was already out of range.

Harry let out a little bewildered laugh and sat down on the stone parapet, leaning back next to a gargoyle that leered demonically. "What the fuck," he mouthed silently to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. "The man is absolutely insane. Abso-bloody-lutely insane. _He's_ the one who should be in St. Mungo's, not his mother."

The gargoyle did not respond to his comments, which only surprised Harry a second later. Everything _else_ talked in this damn place, why not the gargoyles.

The young man rolled his eyes and pushed himself up from the stones. Well. What was he supposed to do now? Damn Snape and his bloody irrational, well, everything. 

With a disgruntled sigh, Harry started to walk off in the opposite direction along the battlement, towards the library. If nothing else, Snape wouldn't be _there_.

****

Severus snarled curses to himself as he wrestled with the heavy door that led inside from out. Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid STUPID child.

Inside, blessedly inside, out from under that big arching relentless blue bottomless sky. He had a headache, a ferocious one, perhaps unparalleled in his dealings with Potters old and new-- no, he admitted there had been headaches worse than this in the past. Hell. Bloody fucking hell, damn the boy, for a Knut he'd go back and put the brat out of their mutual misery.

Stair. Right at the turn in the corridor. He was vaguely aware of a rushing, roaring noise, and it took a second to realize it was his own breath. Snape forced himself to not hyperventilate, feeling dizziness and nausea expressing their own opinions on the matter.

"Fuck," he exhaled, and sat down in the middle of the small, winding hallway, because it was too hard to walk when it was spinning every which bloody way. Severus leaned his head against the cool stone of the nearest wall and waited for the pounding in his skull and the sick feeling in his gut to subside.

After cautious minutes in which he heard his breathing and heartbeat return to something approaching normal, Snape experimentally opened his eyes. The walls and floor were still swimming, blackening at the edges, and he shut them again almost immediately.

His palms felt sweaty and he shifted his grip on his wand in the one hand and Potter's broomstick in the other. If he didn't feel so absolutely miserable and incapable of concentrating, he'd burn the thing to cinders. _Damn the boy!_

Severus Snape was running on what, for a Muggle car, would have been the equivalent of gas fumes. He had had nothing to eat since the salad about twenty hours before, and he had not slept in the last three days. Energizing potions of his own creation had kept him alert, competent, and on his feet the entire time, without any major ill effects, but after every high came a low, and it was a rather phenomenal low that was hitting Snape right now.

By itself, this was fairly routine for summers at Brennigan. The elves and the animals knew to expect such an eccentric schedule from their master: days of being "on," then "off." It was not normally a cause for worry, nor was Snape himself usually in such bad condition at this point of the cycle.

But, normally, he did not exit the safe haven of the library tower to see Harry Potter crashing towards the ground like a comet. He had been sure, dead sure, that he was going to be cleaning up a boy-splat off the flagstones of his courtyard-- or at least, had been sure of that once he'd managed to fight down the initial vertigo and hysteria that had threatened at the sight. He hadn't thrown up, hadn't lost the battle with his nerves entirely, for which he was grateful; and lo and behold the fucking brat was still alive, by what miracle of Merlin nobody knew...

...and he'd been flying hellbent towards the ground on purpose, or so it seemed.

Snape fought a dry retch as he curled up against the corridor wall, unable to stop the sensations, the images. Fall, fall, fall, fall. Falling goes on forever. Ripped from the sky, ripped from your safe place, ripped and hurled towards the earth and _fuck,_ it hurts when you land, hurts so much, sharp and world-blackening pain, and Black and Potter, the fuckers, they're laughing, oh god oh god. Help me. I'm falling.

"Severus?"

Snape bit his teeth down hard on a scream and forced himself to sit up. The nausea wasn't past. He ignored it and opened his eyes, focusing on Wiggin.

"'m all right," he muttered, disgusted with the weakness and tremor of his voice. "I'm... just...  needed to sit down. I'm fine."

Wiggin was giving him a look equal parts disapproval and concern. "You're s_haking,_ Severus. You are most certainly not all right. Let's get you up to your room, my boy."

"'m not a boy," he managed to growl, ignoring the fact that he was indeed shaking. Wiggin picked up the broom and wand, and used a combination of magic and his hands to pull Snape more or less to his feet.

"I wish you wouldn't do this to yourself, Severus," Wiggin clucked as he started to guide his master through an archway on the way up to the bedroom. "Did you _eat_ the sandwiches I took down to you? Or are they still sitting on the counter?"

"...what sandwiches?" Snape muttered, already starting to lose the battle with consciousness. It was safe to do so, Wiggin had him. Wiggin was safe. Home was safe. 

The house-creature sighed and shook his head. "I suppose that answers my question. Open, door!"

They made it to Severus's bedroom at last, and without ceremony Wiggin steered his charge to the bed. Severus plopped unresisting onto the soft surface, and the elf snapped his fingers to divest his master of the rumpled and worn clothing. Severus protested, very weakly, that he wasn't a child and didn't need to be treated as such.

"Severus, I bathed you and your sister when the two of you were babies, I healed your grazed knees, I wiped your noses. Do not presume to tell me how to treat you. Now, if you're not quiet and sleeping, I will not only seal your mouth, I will bring you warm milk."

Severus quieted, and Wiggin efficiently tucked the edges of the sheets and blankets around him, then stepped back and sighed.

"Not good for you to do this, Severus, not good at all," he muttered to himself once more, then drew the room's curtains and left his master to sleep. Food and baths could wait until the body had recovered somewhat from exhaustion.

****

Harry tried out a few of the oaths he'd heard Snape using as he picked through the library shelves in boredom. Stupid Snape. The man had some damned problem, took it out on _him,_ and now he wasn't allowed to fly.

He picked up the Catalogue, held it out at arm's length, and said, "I want stories about Snape the moronic, petty bastard." Grinning slightly, he opened up the book, to see the slanting cursive text read: _Search parameters were not met. Please try searching for something simpler._

Harry snorted and dropped the book back down, plopping into one of the chairs and leaning his head back to stare up at the ceiling of the tower. The wrought-iron staircase climbed ever higher, the landings geometric interruptions in his sight.

"Well, this is absolute rubbish," he announced to the library at large, kicking at the floor in disgruntlement.

"Doth something trouble thee, noble guest?"

Harry sat up with a jerk, looking around for who was talking to him. Floating up through the library floor was a silvery outline that was neither Casimir Snape-Malfoy nor Amelia Snape. Ergo...

_Oh, fantastic..._ Harry's subconscious drawled sarcastically. He swatted it-- it was doing that thing where it sounded like Snape again-- and dutifully, being the decent Gryffindor he was, smiled with marginal politeness.

"Hi. You must be Lucien McGonagall," Harry began, keeping his sigh internal, as the ghost hovered nearby. Lucien McGonagall, for such it was, was (or had been in life) tall and broad of shoulder, decked out in fine sixteenth century doublet and regalia. His long, tied-back hair and eyes had been of light colours, impossible to determine exactly what with his current silvery state. He had indeed been a handsome, healthy looking specimen of a man, all nobility and regal bearing.

Harry already hated him.

"I must? I mean, I must, aye. Curséd be though that name that I bear, yet curséd am I to bear it and be that unfortunate..."

Harry gritted his teeth and cut him off. "Yeah. I've got a message for you from Amelia."

"Ah! The noble guest beareth word from my own true love, her whose love doest-- um, doth-- resound over the chasms betwixt us. Some undying declaration of adoration and devotion, methinks?"

"Yeah," the boy said with a sigh. "Something about the roses still blooming in the garden, though the two of you can't enjoy them."

The ghost struck a dramatic pose. "Ah, so true! Surely, my love's words ringest with the sound of truth, a veritable truth; and the resounding ringing of honesty is displayedeth... um... that doesn't sound right, does it," he muttered to himself, then shrugged and continued. "Her noble... uh... resounding truth... dammitall. Where was I?"  
  


"The resounding truth of her words," Harry reminded him, feeling a tiny smirk begin at the corners of his mouth. Maybe he'd rethink that hate thing.

"Right! Thank you. The resounding truth of the noble phrase which my lady fair, my Juliet, my dark angel, my ev'r sunder'd heart of my heart and light of eyes; she whom I loveth-- lovest with all mine doomed and tragic soul. She, she the er... she whom hath been parted from me by horrible Fate and tragic relatives..."

The ghost paused to catch his breath (so to speak), and Harry helpfully suggested that it might sound better if he switched 'horrible' and 'tragic.'

Lucien cast a dismal glance at him. "You really think so-- I mean, dammitall-- Thinkest thou so, young guest?"

"Yes. And I think that you should also drop the 'ests' and 'eths.' You don't really seem to be all that comfortable with them."

McGonagall gave a gloomy sigh and did the best ghostly impression of plopping dispiritedly into one of the chairs. "I _hate_ talking like that. I'm absolute rubbish at it. But Ames likes it, and since we had a tragically fated high love and all that, I think I'm supposed to... right?"

Harry bit his lower lip. "Er. Not really my province of expertise. Sorry. But really, I'd just go with whatever comes naturally."

The ghost sighed, looking far less noble, regal, and infuriating, and far more pleasant for the change. "Well. When I don't do it, she gets _very_ tetchy. And she can make afterlife hell, believe you me." A dreamy smile started on his face. "But crikes, when she gets going on one of her monologues... a bloody gift for theatre, my Ames. She's something."

Harry tactfully did not advance suggestions as to what kind of something Amelia Snape was. After a moment, the ghost looked up, and said, "I say, you're Harry Potting then, I suppose, so introductions, grand, all that. Sorry I got distracted."

"Potter, actually," the boy said with a subdued grin, reaching out to pass his hand through the hand the ghost held out.

"Right, exactly what I meant, or said that I meant. So. I heard from Fenris, who heard it from Poe, that you're staying here for the summer? One of Severus's students?"

"Yep," Harry said with a sigh, thinking of the annoying bastard who'd confiscated his broomstick. Lucien smiled sheepishly. "I know. The manor's a bit drear of a place, innit? Could ne'er understand just what the Snapes saw in the bloody pile of rock, besides it being all so outrageously big and what. Ponces, all of 'em, excepting my Ames of course."

"You can say that again," Harry muttered, ignoring the 'Ames' part and concentrating on the 'ponces' part. "Sever-- the current Snape, my professor, he just confiscated my broom. After he _said_ I could fly. Does that strike you as--"

"Fly? Your broom? You've got a broom, do you? What make, what model?" Lucien said, a light leaping into his eyes that hadn't been there before. 

"Oh, it's a Firebolt..."

"Firebolt? Lovely, lovely, I used a Firebolt, back when I played Chaser. Not mine-- old Professor Ballimortle got me one since I couldn't afford one on me own. The 1625 Firebolt, that was a good broom, though of course nothing to compare to today's flashy models. Like that Cleansweep I saw in the Prophet recently! I still look through the _Prophet_ at the ads, to try and keep up on the news and all, since Severus doesn't get any Quidditch monthlies or anything. Team?"

Harry blinked. "You mean, team I play for, or team I root for?"

"Both. Either! Oh, this is smashing, I haven't had anyone to talk to about Quidditch in absolute _ages_... not really safe to talk brooms and flying around _him_, if you know what I mean. Team, then? What position you play?"

"Ah..." Harry was torn between answering the question and following up the non sequitir the excited Lucien had thrown him. "Well, I mostly root for the Chudley Cannons, they're my friend Ron's favorite team and mine sort of by extension. I play on Gryffindor house team; I'm Seeker--"

"OH, that must be absolutely smashing. I tried out for Seeker once, but we had a thin little pipsqueak of a girl on our team at the time, Rebecca Dumbledore, and she was faster. Best damned Seeker I'd ever seen. Deucedly pretty too, if I'd had eyes for anyone but Ames. How do you do, as Seeker?"

"I do all right," Harry said with a small grin, debating whether or not he should say that Gryffindor House had only lost four of the many, many games he'd played in, and some of those losses could be attributed to foul play. "I, ah, actually was in Witch Weekly last month, in an article they had on promising English Quidditch players."

"You don't say!" The ghost's eyes opened wide with impressed amazement. "My goodness, I was a decent Chaser, but I never made it to that sort of level. That's bloody splendid. So, in your opinion, do the Cannons have a chance at the British Cup this year, or will it go to the Falcons?  
  


Harry winced. "Well, much as I love the Cannons, I have to admit I think Falcons will take it... you know their Beaters, those two brothers, were offered a place on the England team? They turned it down, said they wanted to stay local for a while."

"Well that's bloody stupid. Hell, maybe if they'd joined, England wouldn't have lost World to Russia."

"Maybe not," Harry shrugged, remembering the very close game he'd attended with the Weasleys. He'd thought the Bulgaria vs. Ireland the year before had been a better game, since at England vs. Russia a slight palpable unease had lain over all the crowds. Voldemort's return, still denied at that point by the Ministry... but rumoured among wizards and witches everywhere.

And there hadn't been a World Cup since.

Harry shrugged off the thoughts and returned to the conversation. "Still, England gave a pretty good account of themselves. _Very_ nice work by their Seeker. Pity Russia's Chasers had got their lead so far ahead. Excellent Chasers, they had."

"Wait, wait," interjected Lucien with a rabid look on his face. "You sound like someone who actually _saw _it..."

"Oh, well, yes. I went," Harry sighed, and for the next hour found himself recounting a play-by-play account of the World Cup, which he was more than happy to do.


	14. Thirteen: An Elucidation on the Problem ...

A Season for Healing

By Dien

Summary and disclaimer in part one.

Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is R for language and angst.

Notes: I am ASSUMING YOU'VE ALL READ OOTP. There are some things similar and some things different, which I will now proceed to ramble about.

For a long time, I have thought there was another "prank" involved in the MWPP/Snape rivalry aside from just the werewolf thing. It turns out I was right (see JKR's Awful Underwear Scene, Inducing Hatred of James)... but my scene had to do with heights and kites. I have chosen to go with heights and kites, for what it's worth. I _will_ try and incorporate other bits of OOTP (such as Kingsley Shacklebolt, 'Snivellus,' etc, as they occur to me. No promises though).

Because I am dismissing the Underwear Chapter from SOH-continuity, I am also getting rid of Harry-rooting-around-Snape's-Penseive. I am still undecided on how much Occulumency, and past tutelage in Occulumency,  will make it into SOH... *sigh*

Enough of that.

A big thanks to all reviewers and readers. One of you (or possibly more than one of you, I don't know) nominated this to the **HP Slash Awards**, which I am intensely flattered about, even if we're listed there as HP/DM and won't make it past the first round anyways. *big grin* I'm still flattered.

For anyone who's asked what Severus's problem is with heights; read this chapter.

Thanks to those who pointed out the missing chunk of the prior chappie. Thanks also to those who caught my broomstick error. **Ater Serpens** caught me in an error about a Quidditch team, thank you... 

For those of you who want the whole list of **Snape Glares,** I'd advise you to join the Yahoo! Group (link can be found in my bio). It's easier than me trying to send the HTML file, what with FF.N not allowing URLs anymore...

**Phalanx Dragon:** Yes, Lucien was one of those that Harry was warned about. Severus finds him just as intolerable as he does Amelia. Severus doesn't _like_ Gryffindors.

(Continual thanks to) my beta **Nyarth**; she is fantastically awesome cool. Everyone: GO READ HER STUFF! She's in my Favourite Authors. Go! Go! (but finish this first) 

**Chapter Thirteen. **_In which a very bad dream occurs for the first time in years, and the ghosts gossip about Severus._

_Severus Snape ran slim, clever fingers over the iridescent surface, his young face alight with something approaching exultation. The paper-thin fabric under his hands had taken months to prepare; further months to fasten it, with terrible carefulness, to the frame of bone... He'd spent every spare moment of this his fourth year making the thing of loveliness that sat on the table before him._

_A wizard's kite. A dragon kite. Not at all the sort of thing sold in Diagon Alley's toy shops, little simple bits of enchantment and paper; no, it was a true kite, a thing of power and terrible beauty. One such as the teenager had just completed could fetch over a thousand Galleons. Not that he had any intention of selling it, of course._

_Again he ran his hands over it, reverently. _This _was magic, the whole point of being a wizard, the whole point of _living_. The sort of thing few other people understood or appreciated... Maybe Shacklebolt in Ravenclaw, or the mudborn Lily Evans, he thought with a wry grin. But certainly not most of his pedantic, dull professors; nor Lucius Fucking Malfoy, nor that absolute imbecile Sirius Black. He smirked again, with far more malevolence, as he thought of the Gryffindor, all dark stylish hair and mocking blue eyes._

_Sirius Black-- no, nor Holy and Revered James Potter either-- couldn't make something like this._

_The abandoned workroom was quiet, empty. He'd stumbled across it in his second year, as he'd wandered the corridors wishing desperately for a place to try his own experiments in potions. He'd been through that particular hall several times when he saw a new door-- and beyond it, a room that was essentially ideal for any project he wanted to work on. As far as he knew, no one else even knew the room existed, which made it all the more perfect. _

_He lifted the kite with careful hands, entranced by the pattern of the scales that glistened and shone with such terrible beauty, and slipped the leather cover over it. Time to test it._

_The top of the astronomy tower was deserted this afternoon, with the weather being what it was today, gloomy clouds warring with the occasional patch of blue sky. The stiff wind from the east drove the drizzly rain into his face, whipping his chin-length black hair into his eyes. He smiled slightly. Lily, silly little mudborn, kept saying that he needed a haircut._

_He uncovered the kite and sucked in a harsh breath at the way a stray beam of sunlight hit the wings and made it look like it was on fire. Oh Merlin, but it was beautiful. The cord, made of the thinnest of silver wires and dragon heartstring woven together, was quickly attached to one wrist. The resplendent body of the kite, all greens and blues and golds and silvers, shot through with deep scarlet and vivid amethyst, was gently lifted, then tossed to catch the wind._

_It did. Shining, magnificent, the kite rose effortlessly into the air, sparkling spells and aerodynamics mingling to create the beauty that was a wizard's kite. The boy closed his eyes, oblivious to his body, as the spells bound him and the kite, transferring his consciousness to the weightless and fiery object that danced and claimed the wind as its own._

_He soared up, up, up forever, free of his body, free of the earth and gravity's dull sway. _Gods yes! Look, look, watch while I master the very wind and firmament, while I dance dances with the air, while I walk the halls of cloud and rain and leave this drab February earth beneath me!

_The kite soared above the Gryffindor lion flag, its dragon wings spread wide, its scales gleaming in a iridescent blaze of color, and the boy's clean, triumphant laughter rang in the winter air._

_A shift. Time passing. February becomes March. Severus Snape takes his covered kite with him to the north of the school, knowing the other students preferred the lake and grassy lawn on Hogwarts' southern side. But here he could have his valued privacy._

_He took off the kite's cover and felt for the breeze. It was mild, but enough to fly. The kite spread its wings, springtime sun hitting them and setting them practically aflame with colour, and Severus started smiling again. The spells took hold-- he became the kite-- and he was flying again._

_The sensation was indescribable; the liberty exhilarating. He spread his dragon's wings and tasted the air beneath him, his to master and dance with. He caught an updraft... then dove glittering towards the earth... darted back and forth like a hummingbird..._

_Hey Sirius what's that hey it's Snape Snape is flying a kite! Like an ickle first year flying a kite_

_Think you can catch his kite James think you can catch it_

_Of course I can it's twenty times as big as a Snitch_

_Grab it away from him then make him beg to get it back_

_Random garbled ugly noises. Meaningless. They belonged to the creatures of the earth, who were so far beneath his level it was ridiculous to even note them. The dragon wings beat, lifting him higher into the air._

_But-- two new presences in the firmament, intruding on Heaven; the dragon bared painted teeth and narrowed its gaze at the new flyers, who had no wings, who flew on pieces of dead wood. Ah, one of them challenges him, flies up, he knows him _don't I--__

POTTER--

Pain._ Fingers dig into his skin, strong cruel fingers crumpling his beautiful shining scales and ripping his flesh from his bones; tearing him out of the sky and flinging him to the hard hungry bitch Gaiea far below, _oh God, I'm falling, listen to Black, the fucker is laughing as I fall

_Nice catch James hey what's going on Snape fell down did you see that look at him Merlin he's crying like a baby he's sniveling what the hell's your problem Snape_

_Hey here it is Sirius I broke it a little when I grabbed it awfully fragile thing Circe look at him cry over a stupid kite, you're right, he's sniveling, sniveling severus snape, Sniveling Snape Snivellus Snape its just a bloody kite just a bloody kite just a bloody kite_

_Snivellus! I like that that's good James come off it Snivellus grow up it was just a little kite here you can have it_

_The kite crunched a little more as it was tossed onto the ground, a weak whimpering sound._

Severus writhed in his sleep, a hand clutching at the sheets spasmodically. He bit down on the scream, bit down until the pain in his mouth woke him.

He shot upright, gasping for breath and groping desperately for his wand. His fingers encountered the smooth wood on the night-table, clutched it tightly, and he was halfway through a defensive charm before he knew where he was. Home. The bedroom, _his_ bedroom.

Severus let out a choked breath of relief and forced his body to relax, inch by painful inch. He dropped his head onto his knees and took deep breaths of the air. 

The room was dim, the heavy curtains drawn against the sun. The thin sheets were tangled around his bare, sweat-drenched body, and he shivered, feeling the chill, despite it being a summer's afternoon. With a convulsive shudder, he struggled out of the strangling sheets and made it out of bed, shaky legs taking him to the bathroom where he proceeded to lose the nothing he had in his stomach.

Snape sank down on the cool tiles and worked on stilling the tremors in his limbs. He hadn't had the dream in... years... not since the Brat's first year, after the absolute nightmare of the Quidditch match. And before that, not for years and years, certainly not in such detail, not reliving the whole experience so completely. He could feel the raw pain in his ripped skin, in his broken bones; he could feel absolute raging primal hatred filling him. If James Potter had appeared before him, reincarnated, at that moment, the only thing that would have kept him in his new lease on life would have been Snape's current inability to focus or cast an offensive spell.

After some minutes spent on the floor, he began to feel the cold sinking into his bones. He wearily lifted his head, brushed the greasy tangled hair out of his face and the burning moisture from his eyes, using the wall to help him stand. He still gripped his wand tight enough that his knuckles were going numb.

Neither Potter nor Black had ever understood exactly what the kite had been. They had taken it for a child's toy, not the psychic vessel it had been. Severus had never informed them otherwise. He had never informed anyone of what had happened that day; not Dumbledore, not his sister, not a soul. His resignation from the Slytherin Quidditch team had raised eyebrows, his problem with heights had provoked jeers (which he'd responded to with curses), and slowly it had become a fact of life until the adult Severus rarely let himself remember there was a time he _hadn't_ had the vertigo and the fear.

He could fly; if he had to. It took immense preparation to get ready to do so; it took an approximate litre of assorted potions to deal with his fear, his nerves, his physiological reactions; it took an effort that he'd only made twice. One had been the night he'd had to fly to Dumbledore and tell him that Voldemort was going for the Potters, _now_; the second had been when he'd volunteered to referee Potter Junior's Quidditch match to keep Quirrell from murdering the brat in plain view.

Potters and flight; what was it about Potters and broomsticks, Potters and Snitches, Potters and himself? Of all the people to have _in his home..._

The terror had passed. He felt filthy and weak; hungry and thirsty and in desperate need of a shower. He couldn't summon the energy. More sleep. Needed some more rest. He tottered back to bed, not letting go of the wand, not looking at Potter's broomstick where it rested against the nightstand.

As he closed his eyes, he realized too late his mistake-- he hadn't performed the charms that would keep him from dreaming. But it was too late; sleep already had him, and it was with restrained terror that he slid back into Morpheus's care.

_....Severus Snape ran slim, clever fingers over the iridescent surface, his young face alight with something approaching exultation. The paper-thin fabric under his hands had taken months to prepare, further months to fasten it, with terrible carefulness, to the frame of bone... He'd spent every spare moment of this his fourth year making the thing of loveliness that sat on the table..._

***

"...so there we were, Gryffindor down sixty points to Slytherin-- _only_ because they'd been cheating-- and I see the Snitch all the way at the other end of the field, but Malfoy is halfway between me and it," Harry said with a grin, gesturing how the play that had won this year's Quidditch Cup had gone down. His audience listened attentively with a rapt expression on his ghostly face.

"What did you _do?"_ Lucien said, chewing on his lower lip as if the question was one of life and death. Harry made an expansive motion with his hand encompassing all of the pitch in his mind. "I flew straight for the centre of the field, where Ron, Ginny, and Beauregard were all tangled up with Crabbe and Goyle, right? They saw me diving as fast as the Firebolt would carry me, scattered out of the way except for Goyle, who tried to hit a Bludger at me. I ducked and it caught Malfoy who was chasing after me as fast as his Cleansweep would go. Then, I banked left hard--"

"And caught the Snitch?" said Lucien with delight.

"No-- it had moved during all that! So as I looked left and right for it, Crabbe flew over and tried to hit me with the bat, pretending he was swinging at the nearest Bludger which was at least twenty feet away; but I moved so quickly he lost his balance and nearly fell off his broom. This bought me enough time to get above the rest of the game, see the Snitch hovering by one of our hoops, and the game was ours," Harry finished with a happy sigh. What a game it had been.

Lucien had the dreamy expression on his face normally associated with those who are deeply in love. "Ruddy _wonderful..._ wish I'd been there to see it...."

Harry shrugged. "You ought to come for our games this coming year. The Hogwarts ghosts watch them all the time, so it's not like you'd _really_ stick out or anything."

Lucien's face fell. "Oh bloody hell, I wish I could Harry, but I'm not allowed to leave Brennigan. Rules of the curse and the death and the high tragic love and all that, don't you know."

"You're stuck here with the Snapes _all the time?_ That's rough," Harry said sympathetically.

"Oh, it's not that bad in summer or on holidays-- there's the chance of explosions at least, then," Lucien murmured dismissively, waving a transparent hand. "Winters _are_ dead boring though, what with Casimir stalking the halls and all, and Ames getting very depressed, and all the Snape portraits being ruddy awful. They don't much like us Gryffindors..."

"I've noticed that," Harry murmured (thinking of one grim-faced man who, Harry had been sure, had given him a particularly evil glare. However, when Harry had turned to check, the painting had been obstinately still. He'd flashed the V back at him just in case, however; and ever since the paintings had seemed to be glaring at him more.)****

"But then, Slytherins have all sorts of mental problems," he said with a grin at his fellow Gryffindor. Lucien nodded energetically. "Oh yes. And they're all so _arrogant!_ And let's not even get started on how hung up on lineage and ancestry and what-not they tend to be--"

"Purity of blood, and all that," Harry said with a nod and sigh. "As if it matters."

Lucien blinked, then cast an odd look at Harry. "Er... yes... I mean... well, anyways, _wealth_ is such a big thing with them and all. Quite ridiculous. If you don't have a sea of Galleons to your name, well then, you may as well just not _exist._ ... Slytherins are _so..._ stuffy. And pretentious. And smug, and slimy, and sneaky, and--"

"--possessed of such an annoying tendency to be nearby when you're speaking of them?" inquired a cold, polite, Snapish voice. Lucien did a ghostly jump, spinning around to see Casimir Snape-Malfoy regarding him with distaste. Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing.

"C-Casimir, I d-didn't know you were st-standing, er, there," mimbled Lucien, Gryffindor bravery nowhere in evidence as he backed up from the other ghost. Casimir sneered. "Obviously. But then, you rarely know much of _anything,_ Lucien."

"I s-say, that's really not on," mumbled Lucien before slipping halfway down into the floor. With a seeming effort, he hovered back up, slipping around behind Harry's chair. Casimir's sneer grew more pronounced.

"Hiding behind the living, McGonagall? How... _sad,"_ he sniffed, then ignored Casimir in favour of looking at Harry. "Harry Potter. Have you seen Severus? He doesn't seem to be in his workshop, and I wanted to talk to him."

Harry scowled at the mention of his professor. "I don't know where Snape is and I don't care. Probably having a breakdown or hexing my broom or something."

Casimir's gaze sharpened. "I beg your pardon? Breakdown? Broom?" Behind Harry, Lucien temporarily forgot that he was in need of protection from the other ghost and peered down curiously at the teenager, adding his own questioning look to Casimir's.

Harry shifted, still disgruntled. "Yeah, he confiscated my broom after I was doing a dive in the courtyard. Went completely ballistic on me. After he _said_ I could fly, the bas-- the, the, um..." he cast around for a less offensive term to use in front of the two ghosts, but it turned out he needn't have bothered, as they were already distracted.

"Severus let you _fly? _In the _courtyard?"_ said Casimir with an incredulous expression on his ghostly features. Lucien echoed him, and Harry blinked up at the Gryffindor ghost.

"Yeah. I already told you that. Remember? We started talking about brooms... anyways," he said, "...he obviously was just screwing with me. Telling me I could fly so he'd have an excuse to confiscate my Firebolt," Harry growled moodily, using a fingernail to scratch at a chip in his chair's armrest.

Lucien and Casimir cast each other deeply concerned glances that Harry completely missed as he picked at the wood. "I still can't believe he let you fly," muttered Casimir, shoving ghostly hands into ghostly pockets and starting to pace. 

The teenager blinked at that. "Yeah... kind of funny, isn't it? You'd think he'd try to keep me from practicing as little as possible, on the chance that maybe Malfoy might get to beat me next year," he said with a "fellow-Gryffindor" grin at Lucien. It wasn't returned, as McGonagall was looking worried himself. "Er... Harry, you said Severus saw you doing a dive, and then had a breakdown or something?"

Harry looked back and forth between the two ghosts and finally clued in that something was going on. "Okay. What is this?"

Casimir cleared his throat and looked up at the dragon's bones overhead. "Mmm... Potter, you _do_ know about Severus's problem with what we delicately refer to around here as the 'f-word,' don't you?"

The boy blinked, completely non-plussed. "Look, I can tell you myself that Snape has absolutely no problem with any 'f-word' considering how much he was using them just an hour ago to insult my ancestry, house, intelligence, and--"

"_No._ The other F, Harry Potter-- Fly."

Harry exhaled and stared annoyedly in Casimir's direction. "Can you _please_ talk sense."

Casimir snorted and dropped elegantly into the chair he'd driven Lucien from, steepling transparent hands together and staring aristocratically over them as McGonagall hovered around uncertainly. "Severus Snape, your Professor Snape, has a bit of a difficulty with, ah, heights. And flying."

"Bit, nothing. He's dangerously unstable when they're brought up, is what Casimir is saying," muttered Lucien, then instantly quieted at a disdainful glance from the other ghost.

"What?" muttered Harry. "How could that-- what, you mean like a _little_ problem with heights, like he gets a little queasy, or..."

Casimir sighed, looked left and then right as if he expected the current-Snape-in-residence to be listening. "No. No, I'm afraid not. Severus has a rather terrible time with heights; he has since he was a teenager. He gets terribly sick at even the _thought_ of flying."

Three days ago, Harry might have smirked at the idea of big, bad, aren't-I-in-control Professor Snape being afraid of heights. Now he just frowned, thinking hard. "But how can that be? He _flew_ in my first year; for the Quidditch match--"

"He _did what?_" both ghosts asked simultaneously. Harry blinked, repeated, "He flew. He refereed the match, actually; to keep Quirrell from hexing me. I mean, we didn't know that was what he was doing at the _time,_ but--"

"Stop. Start over," commanded Casimir, black eyes drilling holes in Harry. "You say in your first year at Hogwarts, Severus not only voluntarily let his feet leave the ground, he actually was up on a broomstick for an appreciable length of time?"

Harry nodded slowly, remembering the match in his mind's eye. It had been six years ago-- but also the second game he'd ever played in. You didn't just _forget_ something like that...

He remembered-- the way the wind had ruffled his Seeker's robes, how unsure he had been compared to the way he played now, how all the other players, especially the Hufflepuffs that day, seemed _huge..._ how Oliver Wood had encouraged him to grab the Snitch early... how his heart had leapt when he realized Dumbledore was attending the game... how he'd seen the golden, glistening Snitch fluttering lazily around beneath where Snape had hovered like a spectre on his broom. He remembered grinning, imagining how great it would be if he knocked Snape right off his broom, and had actually made his dive a lot closer to Snape than was really necessary, just to spook him. Gryffindor had won the game in barely five minutes.

_...as Gryffindors came spilling onto the field, he saw Snape land nearby, white-faced and tight-lipped... Snape spat bitterly onto the ground..._

"Well-- I guess he didn't look that good, afterwards," Harry muttered, his brow creasing in thought. Of course, at the time, he and Ron and Hermione had _known_ that Snape was trying to kill him. They'd been wrong, but that little detail had somehow not been brought up later, nor that match analyzed too closely... nor the look on Snape's face. Harry bit his lip as he recalled how pale-- paler than normal, that is-- the professor's face had been, how-- had the hands been shaking? At the time he'd assumed it was anger at being cheated of the possibility to attack him, Harry; he'd never even _considered--_ well of course not, why would he have--

Harry suddenly felt guilty, and angry at his eleven year-old self. He didn't think he'd ever even thanked Snape for saving his life.... 

"Oh, _damn,"_ he muttered, sinking back into the chair. Snape's expression when he'd asked to fly (he'd thought the man looked a bit peaky) made some sense now... and if Snape had come out of the library and thought he was falling... Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Damn it. Just when he was comfortable hating the man again...

"Where would Snape be, right now?" he asked the ghosts. Casimir stopped whispering to Lucien long enough to cast Harry a glare that was both contemptuous and accusing. "You're asking _me_?" he drawled. "I seem to recall I was looking for Severus myself-- or was, before you, my dear surplus Gryffindor, decided to give him a heart attack..."

Harry glared. "I didn't do it on _purpose,_ you know. And he _said_ I could fly."

"Good heavens, you aren't supposed to listen to anything we Snapes _say,_ you foolish boy," muttered Casimir, rolling his ghostly eyes and starting to sink down into the floor. "_I_ shall be looking for him in the catacombs. _You,_ I believe, have done enough damage for the day."

Before Harry could get a retort off to that, Casimir had vanished between the floor's paving stones. Harry sighed and cast an aggrieved glance at Lucien, floating tentatively nearby. "This is _ridiculous,_" he snapped. "If Snape has such a problem with all this, why didn't he just _tell_ me I couldn't fly? Would have saved us all a lot of trouble."

Lucien shrugged helplessly. "Well. Yes, perhaps. But would you-- I mean, I rather think Severus is-- well, that is to say, it's never struck me as something Severus is _proud_ of. I dare say he didn't want you _knowing_ he is afraid of heights. Dignity at stake, and all."

Harry exhaled. "So instead he nearly gives himself a coronary when I do something he doesn't want me doing?! Yeah, that's _so_ much more dignified."

Lucien smiled weakly. "Slytherin logic. What _can _you say."

Harry nodded and dropped his gaze to the floor with an exasperated sigh, eyes tracing the flagstones Casimir Snape-Malfoy had disappeared between. Suddenly he blinked and looked back up at Lucien, who was shifting from foot to ghostly foot with the air of a man who's not entirely certain what he's supposed to be doing.

"Hey-- Casimir said he was going to look for Snape in the 'catacombs.' _What_ catacombs?"

Lucien fluttered. "Labyrinth. Under the house. The family crypts are down there. I _hate_ the place. Bloody creepy," he muttered with a shiver.

Harry frowned and dug out the folded-up square of map and his wand from their respective pockets. He hadn't seen any 'catacombs' on there when he'd examined the map on his first day.

"Oh, they won't show up on there, magically protected from that sort of thing," Lucien began, then broke off and said delightedly, "I say! That's one of Wiggin's maps! He let you _use_ one? Oh that's wonderful! We, the ghosts that is, aren't allowed to touch them. Something complicated about our ecto-- ecta-- ecplosm-- something fields, throwing off the magic of the map. Something. Casimir explained it to me once." 

The ghost cocked his head to one side. "I say though. Wouldn't the map show you where Severus is?"

Harry blinked, then blinked again, and was reminded, for some reason, of Ron and Hermione. More precisely, the rare occasion when Ron would come up with a blindingly simple solution after Hermione spent hours searching for it. He unfolded the map, tapped it with his wand, and searched for the green dot that was Snape.

The dot was stationary on the second floor of the main bulk of the house, in a fairly large room. Harry nodded decisively, rolled the map up, and headed determinedly for the library tower door.

The fact that he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do when he found Snape was entirely irrelevant.


	15. Fourteen: Don't Feed the Doors

A Season for Healing

By Dien

Summary and disclaimer in part one.

Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is R for language and angst.

Notes: An apology to all my readers and friends for the delay in this. The muse deserted, the muse danced around with other chapters, the muse has been hit over the head with a waffle iron and stuffed into a sack now, and so we sincerely hope to have a more reliable rate of progress from this point on. Dien solemnly swears to try and do better, since far less than a chapter a month has to be one of the most abysmal speeds of 'progress' found on a WiP in this fandom. If this chapter disappoints, as it may very well in both shortness and failure to meet everybody's expectations, then we do sincerely apologize and say only in our excuse that we wanted to post_ something,_ just to be writing on SoH again.

Dien has a livejournal. Her username, perhaps unsurprisingly, is Dien. You are more than welcome to friend Dien.

Dien wishes to thank all the very kind people who have been nice enough to review as they are probably the only thing keeping her going on this story, which has become something like my darling Winston's description of writing:

"Writing a book is an adventure. To begin with it is a toy and an amusement, then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master, then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster, and fling him about to the public." ...the thing is that Winston understood you do not publish things that are half-finished. Smart man, that.

Dien does not know when Siobhan will arrive. The woman is notoriously unpredictable.

To **Black Goddess--** mostly for Dien's own amusement. And you are quite right about limpid vs. limpet. Dien is ashamed.

To **Sofia Dragon--** apologies, but that would be incredibly hard to do. It's not going to be a sex scene or two that can be skirted around; the fic will be dealing with their overall relationship and how it changes. Rather hard to edit out. *grins* Perhaps you ought to simply desquick yourself.

To **weltenauge--**It has to be the epitome of flattery when you find a part of your fic has become an in-joke for someone else. Thank you for making Dien's day.

To **NemesisMuse--** (neat handle btw) Yes, there will be more on Petra. And Dien gets it fairly often. Ergo, the long delay of this chappie.

To **FlameRhiannon**-- Ha ha ha. Dien wishes she were that organized. 

To **that Nyarth bitch person-- **Thank you, dear, for making Dien feel so much more guilty. A fecking year and a half. Damnation. *Dien flops onto Nyarth and sobs* **Note-- Nyarth is the lovely beta whose Snape fics you SHOULD ALL BE READING. Goooooooooooo. **

Dien will now stop talking in third person so you do not kill her...

**Chapter Fourteen. **_In which Harry learns about the unique doors of Snape Manor._

Harry walked across the battlements, heading from the library tower to the house proper, shaking his head as he went along.  The man was so completely. ..barking, raving, mad.  Third day in, and if things were this ridiculous _now,_ how were the two of them expected to survive a whole summer together? He sighed. 

Harry skirted the outside of the Owlery tower, hearing the soft sounds of chirping through the tower's windows. "Hello, Harry Potter," croaked a voice from above his head, and he looked up to meet Poe's beady black eyes. The glossy raven was perched on the Owlery tower's roof, head cocked curiously. "Hey Poe," he replied, pausing a moment to talk to the raven. "How's things?"

"Infinitely better with the menace that is Caperian safely departed," the bird croaked in a self-satisfied manner. "Now the only problem is I don't know where Macavity is, and that is a dangerous thing not to know. ...And yourself, Harry Potter?"

The boy sighed and hauled himself up into the space between two of the battlement projections, sitting down for a moment. "I've been better. Snape and I are probably going to kill each other by the end of summer. That man is _so annoying."_

Poe let out a squawk and fluttered down to land on his knee. "Severus can be ...difficult at times, can't he?"

Harry laughed. "Congratulations, Poe, you win the prize for understatement of the year," he chuckled. "He... well, I need to go and talk to him. In a moment."

The raven cocked his head curiously. "Need to talk to Severus? And why would that be?"

Harry frowned, and became engrossed with his hands. "Just need to, you know, work some things out. Um. I think I maybe owe him an apology. And it would be nice to... get one from him too."

The bird made an odd croaking, hacking sound that it took Harry a moment to realize was laughter. "Apologies. ...Harry Potter, I think you may be in the wrong house for such things."

Harry crossed his arms defensively. "Hey-- he's the one who threw a temper tantrum squarely at me. I'm saying I'm sorry for something that happened _years_ ago, when I was eleven and thought he was trying to kill me; he was a jerk just _today._ I don't think it's too much to expect a little compromise from him too."

The bird merely ruffled his feathers in a way that somehow managed to communicate Harry might have better luck in expecting the moon to meet him halfway. Harry sighed.  "Oh come _on._ Is it _that_ unreasonable to want an apology for him calling me every unprintable name in the book?"

Poe gave an awkward little hop from one knee to the other. "Well. It's just that-- You must know-- I don't think _apologies_ in general are something this family does much of. Something Summanus-- that was Severus's father, by the way-- used to say-- 'an apology is a weapon effective only against the simple-minded.'"

"Well, bully for him-- from what I've heard, he was an absolute wanker, and you'll have to forgive me if I don't think his life philosophy is one _I_ should be following," Harry grumbled. The bird blinked, then made the croaking laugh again. 

"Wise, Harry Potter. Very wise. Well then; apologize if you will. I look forward to seeing what comes of it," Poe croaked with what sounded like amusement, spreading his wings as he prepared to leave Harry's knee. "Oh-- by the way. Your owl is back. Hedwig. Very pleasant owl, that."

"Hedwig's back? From Ron's? Great! Where--"

"In the owlery," Poe said with a nod towards the tower, and Harry quickly scrambled to his feet and made for the door, even the matter of Snape temporarily forgotten. 

After giving Hedwig a reproaching look for not coming directly to him with the letter-- if you asked Harry, Hedwig was getting a bit too comfortable in the Owlery with all the other birds to chatter with-- he took Ron's reply and headed back outside with it, shutting the door carefully behind him. He read the letter as he walked.

_Harry--_

_Yeah, mum is on the warpath. I wouldn't want to be in Ginny's shoes right now; she was helping the twins with that new thing they're doing with the bootblack charm and turned her skin and hair pitch black. Mum says she's going to have to wait for it to fade, and be grounded the whole time. _

_Damn, Harry, you have to give me more of a hint than that? 26 elves? Lucky git. Ministry or something? I don't know; I give up. But at least you're getting to fly; I can't see Ministry morons allowing that..._

_By the way, you started your Transfiguration make-up yet? I owled Hermione for some help, but she just gave me the usual blather about 'you ignored my warnings and now you can do it yourself.' Bloody hell-- what's the point of having a genius girlfriend if you can't count on her for school?_

_Heh. Don't tell her I said that._

_Anyways, take care, write back._

_-Ron (and all the clan)_

Harry grinned fondly as he folded the letter and put it in his pocket, pulling out the map and his wand instead. The labyrinth of the house was, once again, before him. Now _where_ had the-green-dot-that-was-Snape been.... ah, right there. Harry scrutinized the map, trying to figure out which staircases he needed to go up to manage an ascent to that floor. Okay, left corridor... then right... down that stairwell, which would put him at the base of _that_ stairwell...

"Who designed this bloody place," he muttered to himself as he clomped down the first set of stairs, then rolled his eyes when one of the paintings called after him, "Arawn Septimius Snape...."

"Does EVERYTHING in this bloody house talk?" he shot back at it. A statue a little ways ahead shifted position and blinked stonily at him, then shook its head in a solemn no. Harry couldn't help a snort as he exited the stairwell and started up the next one. 

It was a good ten more minutes before he found himself in front a solid-looking oak door, with a gold handle in the shape of a snake curling sinuously in front of him. Harry checked the map; yes, the green dot labelled 'Severus Snape' was supposedly on the other side of that door.

He took a deep breath. And knocked.

Thirty seconds passed with no response, and he frowned, then knocked harder. It _was_ a thick door; maybe Snape hadn't heard him. He waited again, and grimaced.

Bloody stupid stubborn _Snape._ He had come all this way in the Slytherin equivalent of a Tri-Wizard Tournament Maze _just_ to apologize, and the man was refusing to open his door. He considered banging on the door for a bit, then sighed. 

He was going to be mature about this if it killed him. After all, one of them had to be the mature one. And as _Snape_ didn't seem like he was going to.... 

"Professor Snape," Harry called out, rapping on the door again. Waiting. Nothing. Harry exhaled a short annoyed breath, then decided just to test the doorknob, see if it was locked. He curled his hand around the snake's body--

--and let out a pained gasp as the metal shifted and fangs buried themselves in his wrist. 

"Well, of course, Harry," he heard a distant voice mutter-- his own?-- as everything started to go black around the edges, faster than he would have thought possible. "Snape's.... door... you really... should have seen.... that one... com-iiiiiiinnnnnnnng--"

The floor rose up to claim him.

***

"...and sup_pose, _Mister Potter, that I had _not_ been already on my way to the room when I sensed the door ward activating? As it was, it was a re_mark_ably close thing I reached you before the poisons got to your heart," said a very strict, displeased voice. Harry woozily hunted for whatever switches were needed to turn his brain back on.

"And I _do_ hope that in the future, you will be a bit more circumspect about grabbing onto doorknobs shaped like venomous creatures. Really. What _are_ they teaching you children at school, these days....?"

Snape? No way-- voice had the right pissed-off tone, sure, but way too squeakish and high... Harry struggled to open his eyes.

"And for that matter; what possessed you to come looking for Severus right now? He is _hardly_ up to seeing anyone at the moment. No. Most certainly not. Lie _still--_ these toxins are a right bugger to get out of the system, and I'm not quite done yet."

A sensation like a wave of pins and needles passed through his body, and Harry finally managed to get his eyes back open. He found himself looking up at Wiggin, which in itself was rather odd; it wasn't often you found yourself looking up at a four-foot tall creature. Unless you were on the floor.

Which was where Harry realized he was. He coughed slightly, then feebly lifted his hand to examine the wounds. 

"Snake.... bit me..." he muttered weakly. 

"Yes, well, if someone grabbed you around your mid-section without telling you they were going to do that, I imagine you'd bite them too, Mister Potter. Please be a bit more courteous towards the doorknobs in the future," sighed Wiggin with a pained expression. Harry looked up from the two tiny dots on his wrist-- funny, those fangs had felt a lot bigger going in-- with a slightly incredulous look.

"I was... poisoned... by Snape's _doorknob..._ and you're telling me I need to work on courtesy?" he said, then winced as his voice cracked on the last word. Wiggin coughed politely. "Indeed. Now, how are you feeling? Dizzy? Nauseous at all?"

"Um... a bit dizzy actually," Harry said, truthfully, and tried to sit up. "But can we concentrate on the fact that I was just _poisoned_ by the doorknob when--"

"When you obviously grabbed it without permission, Mister Potter," sighed the elf. "Now _do_ pay attention, young man. I have... heard... that you spend a great deal of time among... Muggles. Now I'm not _quite_ sure how things are done _there_, but in this house, if a door does not open upon being knocked, that indicates it is for all intents and purposes meant to stay shut. Therefore, young men should _not_ go thrusting their hands onto door-guardians who quite obviously have a purpose and, then, be surprised when that purpose is fulfilled. Lie down; you are in no condition to get up."

In that moment, Harry Potter realized that arguing with Wiggin the Not-Quite-a-House-Elf was probably as productive as arguing with glaciers, or mountains, or a tectonic plate, and laid meekly back onto the stone floor of the corridor. "Snape... didn't answer the door..."

"No he did not. Severus is sleeping and in great need of it; and if anything other than the imminent end of the world shows up here and threatens to interrupt that sleep, they shall have me to deal with," Wiggin said severely. "Now; you ought to apologize to the snake. I have had a terrible time calming her down and she is still quite skittish."

"Apologize... to the door?"

"To the door-warden, if you please," Wiggin said implacably. Harry sighed and cast a glance up and over at the door. The golden snake was indeed moving about, writhing in nervous little circles around the keyhole, the two emeralds that served as eyes glinting malevolently at him. Harry stared at the two small crystalline fangs, pretty sure that the red on them was his blood. "Uh... okay. I'm, um, sorry for grabbing you, door," he said awkwardly.

Wiggin clucked disapprovingly. "You ought to touch her. Show that you trust her."

"What? I _don't_ trust her! It! It bit me!"

Wiggin looked at him.

Glacier, Harry remembered. Mountain. Tectonic plate. He sighed. "Okay. Okay, but if you don't want me getting up...."

Wiggin waved long goblin fingers and Harry found himself levitated upright, within reach of the door. Cautiously, he began to inch his hand forward towards the door. The snake did _not_ look happy to see it approaching. "Er, Wiggin, someone told me today that you don't have to apologize in this house...."

"Well, they were obviously an untrustworthy source of information," Wiggin said firmly. Harry sighed and moved his hand a little closer. The door-warden began to hiss furiously, and Harry suddenly burst into an embarrassed laugh. Wasn't he forgetting something here? 

He cleared his throat and said, in Parseltongue, "I'm ssssorry about the missundersssstanding, sssnake. Pleasse accept my apology?"

The snake blinked, obviously startled, then sent a rapid metallic hiss back at him that sounded something like, if-you-sspeak-one-of-uss-why-not-ssspeak-sso-to-begin-with-and-thusss-avoid-whole-confusssion-by-ssaying-what-you-wanted-then-likewisse?

Harry shrugged. "I'm ssorry. I wassn't thinking about it. I'll do better next time, I promisse."

The snake nodded once, then said in her soft tinny voice, sso-then-likewisse-I-accept-your-apology-and-now-I-musst-sssleeeeep-- 

And before Harry could blink, the golden snake had melted back from life into non-life, a firm frozen door handle. He shrugged again and turned to Wiggin, who was observing him through slitted eyes, which was a highly strange look on the elf. "Severus had failed to mention you were a Parseltongue," the elf said after a moment. Harry raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a suitably bland manner. 

"You don't say."

Wiggin snorted and made another gesture with his hand. Harry found himself floating gently through the halls, away from the door. "Um, Wiggin, not that I don't appreciate it, but I can walk, really."

"I doubt that. And in any case, you might walk in a direction other than your room, and right now you should be in your room. Sleeping."

"Sleeping? It's not even two in the afternoon!"

"Your body needs to recover, Mister Potter. Not unlike Severus's, though thankfully _he_ doesn't go around presenting his extremities to be bitten," Wiggin said with appropriate tsk-tsking noises, and Harry came to another important realization about Wiggin.

"You _like_ this, don't you," he said accusingly as he trailed in the elf's wake. Wiggin paused and stared at him, the pained expression giving over to a confused one. "I beg your pardon?"

"You _like_ having someone to mother-hen to death, don't you? And since Snape and his sister are all grown up, I'm the first one you've had in years... oh, I'm so going to hate this," Harry moaned as they made their way down a spiral staircase.

"Stuff and nonsense," said the elf briskly and just a tad guiltily. "And you're quite obviously delirious. All the more reason you should rest." There was a momentary pause, then Harry muttered, "And what if I can't sleep?"

"Then we shall simply have to bring up some warm milk to help you on your pleasant way to dreamland," said Wiggin in the most blandly innocent, and yet truly evil, tone Harry had ever heard anyone manage. "That always helped Severus sleep, as a boy..."

And for the second time-- or was it the third now, he really wasn't sure-- in two days, Harry Potter found himself pitying Severus Snape. With a tyrant like this proscribing warm milk.... ye _gods._


End file.
